


Isolation Interrupted

by howllx



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: First Time, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Past Abuse, Slow Build, absolutely happy ending, i add on tags as i go along, mentions of self harm, teenager angst, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-27 18:38:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 27,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5059705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howllx/pseuds/howllx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank is kind of really screwed up after what happened with his dad. At this point he doesn't know what to do to fix it, other than isolate himself in some cabin his family owns two hours away from home. His plan is to stay there for a while, figure his shit out, then return home, good as new.<br/>Only this cabin isn't as isolated as he thought. </p><p>(So bad at descriptions, ohmfgod, but ya know. The important  bit is good.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Ending of a Chapter

**Author's Note:**

> First ever fic published on here. But I have been writing this for about two years so I feel pretty confident in it. Still a work in progress, though. I guess we'll just see how this goes.

Ch. 1

"And you're still sure about this?"

Frank heard his mother, but he didn't respond. He couldn't, because fuck if he knew if he was sure anymore. Admittedly, it was kind of too late to back out now, he still let the thought enter his eyes for a moment before he shook himself - no, this had to happen.

The idea was sound, as it had been when he'd suggested it nearly a month ago. He had surprised himself, coming up with such a destructive plan, and even more surprising he actually gave it voice. He asked his mother what she thought, and was definitely not expecting her to take it into consideration - and then  _agree_. And it hadn't even taken that much convincing: most likely it had to do with the fact that it was summer, and Frank was a decent student, anyways, and that his family had owned this small cabin for as long as his mother could remember, so it wasn't like the surrounding area was completely unfamiliar. Or maybe, just maybe, Frank's mother understood. He needed this.

That's what kept him from voicing his small doubts. He needed this cabin; it was a two hour drive away from their house, hidden away in the thick vegetation that sprawled on for miles and miles. His mother's car had made a nice trail in the leafy mulch, but he was sure in a few days the roots and branches will obscure the path. It was far out of reach, hard to find and to itself. Exactly what Frank needed.

He'd always had problems with depression and anxiety, okay, yeah he was a teenager. Those types of things pop up. But lately it's as though his thoughts were just strands of tangled barbed wire, and any time he tried to sort through the jumbled mess he'd end up hurting himself - there'd be blood and tears and, really, this was the only thing that made sense anymore.

One month. One month alone, here in this cabin. He'd wanted more time, to sort his shit out and come to terms with who the fuck he was, but a month was all he was allowed. You would think that being a depressed teenager with severe paranoia and anxiety the last thing Frank would want would to be stuck in a cabin out in the middle of nowhere. By himself. But it was what he needed, even if he didn't like it. He was terrified; he'd be facing all his problems head on, being alone being one of them, and he wasn't sure how he'd be able to handle it. But if he backed out now, he'd never deal with his issues, and that was probably worse.

Frank's mother was looking at him with her eyebrows raised, and for a moment he thought it had come to that time where they were to hug and then she'd see her way out. Then he remembered she'd asked him a question. "Oh, sorry, I - well, no, to be honest. I'm kind of ..." Freaking out, he wanted to say, but -  _no_ , he had to do this and if he showed any sign of uncertainty, his mother would pounce on it. "I'll be fine."

"I know you will," She looked out of place. Not only uncomfortable with the situation, but being inside the cabin at all, it seemed. Frank could tell she had almost forgotten about the little ramshackle of a house, and being back seemed to disorient her. She was wearing her hair finely curled and a wrinkle free blouse and a skirt, as if she wasn't in the middle of some forest at all. These past few months had been as hard on her as they had been for her son; she must be ecstatic to have her life back now that he'd be gone, Frank thought; there wouldn't be this dark shadow lingering in the upstairs bedroom anymore. And maybe when he came home they could pretend it had never been there in the first place.

"I really appreciate this," He said for what seemed like the billionth time.

"I know, just - be careful, okay? I forgot how large this forest was. Don't go getting lost, or inviting strangers in or -"

"Seriously?" Frank laughed. He didn't even like going into stores all that much, because it involved human interaction, being social -  _small talk_. He was not about to go looking for homeless hikers and invite them. No, that door was going to stay locked the minute his mother left, and wouldn't be unlocked until she returned. It was unnerving; the idea of spending the next couple weeks in such a vast expanse of land with no one to rely on but himself, but that was the point of it all, really. He  _had_  to be uncomfortable for a while so that, later on, he won't be. It was confusing, and the more he thought about it, the more he pricked himself against the metallic spikes of his mind, and he gave up, sighing into a newfound headache.

"I'll be calling every Sunday," Frank's mother continued. Originally, she had wanted these phone calls to occur every night, but that defeated the purpose of being alone. The one call a week did too, but Frank wasn't getting away with complete seclusion. He had to settle with his mother's requests. "And if at any point you want to come home, don't hesitate, okay?"

Frank nodded. He'd heard all this before. She'd basically become a CD player, never changing the track. "It's getting late," Frank said. "You might want to leave now, if you want to make it back before dark."

She nodded, and then engulfed her son in a fierce hug, one he didn't even think she was capable of. Frank's mother was short like him, hence where he got the gene from, and to feel such strength come from someone with such a stature, it surprised him. "I love you," She said as she let him go.

"I love you, too."

And then she was gone.

 

 


	2. The Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short, kind of irrelevant chapter, but it's all building up to the grand reveal. ( which isn't really that grand when you know that I know that you know who's going to come up )

Ch. 2

He'd been expecting more dust.

Granted, there was still an air of abandonment, that slight chill to the room that said these walls had been vacant for a while, but there was hardly any dust. Even his own home, which was lived in constantly, had fucking dust. He could see distinguishable foot prints on parts of the dark wood, carved out of the faint layer of gray that actually showed, but he figured those were from his mother's friends. They'd been kind enough to haul up some furniture for Frank, so he wouldn't have to find comfort in the hard floor alone.

He could hardly remember this place. Once before he'd been here, maybe - he wasn't sure, he was young and the memory involved his father and anything that had to do with that man was usually pushed far back to the deepest pockets of his mind. Bringing forth such a memory was hard, but he could just recall the smells of the forest in Summer; the brightness of everything, all open windows and billowing branches; he could remember the room he slept in when his father and him had been here. It was technically the guest room, but there was no fucking way he was sleeping in the master bedroom; the image of his father was especially strong there, and God - just no.

Frank headed to the kitchen, fingers crossed slightly. He hadn't asked for any specifics, but hopefully his mom had -  _yes_. God, he was half tempted to call her and show just how much he appreciated her - Frank's mother had allowed a coffee machine. He grinned, and started the thing up, wondering just how much his mother had permitted. There was a half gallon of milk in the slightly out-dated brown fridge, as well as many fresh fruits and vegetables; things she knew Frank would eat. There were also cans of non-perishables in the few cupboards that hung from the walls. They had come to an agreement that Frank simply could not survive on canned food and water bottles alone, so his mom had arranged for a milk-man of sorts to deliver fresher foods every Sunday, the same day as his one required phone call. The deliverer knew not to expect Frank to answer the door until after he'd gone; no human interaction and all that.

With a mug of liquid energy in his hands, Frank walked around the small cabin, trying to remember each hall and where the bathrooms were. There were less widows than he remembered; two in the front guarding either side of the door, and on in the back of the house, centered in the middle of the hall. There were only two rooms; the guest and master, and while the master had it's own bathroom, with a large tub and shower, the smaller bath besides the guest room had only the basics.

When he came to his new room, he paused. A lot of memories, none of them being all that pleasant, smacked him hard in the face and suddenly breathing became a whole lot harder. His hands were shaking; the brown liquid in his mug trembling and moving in unsteady waves. Frank thought, for the smallest fraction of a moment, of calling his mom - if he couldn't even open the God damn door then how was he going to survive a whole fucking month? He couldn't be here - he wasn't going to make it.

Then he blinked.

Everything - the memories and nauseous images - fled from him as quickly as they'd appeared, like black goo swirling down a drain. His grip became firm on the handle of his cup and he pushed open the door.

At first, he was simply surprised. Who wouldn't be? There were defiantly things that didn't quite belong here, and then there was the initial confusion - what the hell? These weren't his, no, definitely not. And his mother never mentioned them, neither had the men who moved in all the furniture. They must have assumed all of this was his, but they weren't.

So whose fucking paintings were these? And why were they in Frank's cabin?

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We all know who's paintings those are.


	3. Mysterious Painter Guy

Ch. 3

Frank stood in the doorway in a sort of stupor for an immeasurable amount of minutes.

In the time it took him to actually move, he had begun to panic. Someone had been coming into his cabin, that much was obvious. And they'd been painting fucking pictures. There were a lot of canvases, some of them covered in colors and swirls and images, but there were just as many blank ones too, white and just ready to be filled with life. Which meant that whoever had taken up space here was planning on returning.

There were a lot of thoughts going through Frank's head in that moment. Most of them broken and shaking - what the actual fuck. Who takes up an empty cabin anyway? Like, the door was obviously locked, the place obviously belonged to someone because it's not like it was run down with broken windows and missing porch steps. It was kept in good condition, because  _someone owned it_. Maybe that's why there hadn't been any dust, because whoever was fucking around in here caused enough movement that nothing could settle. Great.

Despite the fact that there wasn't anyone but Frank there currently, he still felt as though there were another heart beat somewhere nearby. Goose bumps puckered his arms and he was glad there were only three windows, because the constant rapping that the trees were making against them was setting him on edge. The spider leg shapes behind the glass could just as easily transform themselves into human hands, breaking through the flimsy barrier and - fuck. Not even a day at his supposed therapeutic retreat and he was already having an episode.

Frank found himself on the floor, knees to his chest, hands covering his ears. His breathing was deep, labored. Fuck. He supposed he should actually call his mother, this was a perfectly good reason to, but he was turning 18 in a few months, soon he'd be living on his own all the time, and if he couldn't handle a random artist that liked to break into people's property, what could he handle? The guy - or girl - had to come back at one point, right? To fill the empty canvases, surely. Frank would talk to them, then. Hopefully they wouldn't be how Frank was making them out to be - which was aggressive and murderous. But what kind of murderer painted?

Standing, Frank took small steps into the room. His bed was centered in the small space, a night stand on the left. All the canvases blank and covered, were leaning against the far wall. They were all different sizes, some coming up to his waist, others the same measurement as the windows. He peered closer at them, finding they were actually  _really_  good. None of them held the same concept, really, but they had a similar theme; obviously they were made by the same person. There were echoes of each painting that could be seen in the ones surrounding it; a medium sized painting depicted a skeletal figure with a background of blacks and grays, and a sprawling field of dim yellow grass. There was a sun sinking into the horizon but it was almost completely obscured by smoky fog. And there was a painting beside it, which Frank could find a similarity in. It was brighter; more reds and happy oranges, but there was the same darkness from the other painting. Only this time it wasn't so obvious as to be in the foreground. The blackness was held in the person's face. Amid the glowing yellow stood alone character adorned in a bright jacket with tumbling dark hair. His eyes were cast downward, a certain amount of shading given to his face to portray that while everything around him was bright and shimmering, he was lightless and - empty.

As much as Frank hated to admit it, he admired the work of whoever was intruding on his family's property. He wasn't looking forward to the idea of having to speak to them and explain that they needed to stop coming to his cabin, but he was still looking forward to meeting them. He was curious as to who had made these pieces.

Frank closed his bedroom door and made his way to the living room. There was no TV; nor was there a computer of any type. The only electronic device he had that could connect him to the outside world was his cell phone, but there wasn't internet service up here anyways. And, really, he was glad. During the Summer he spent way too much time in front of a screen, whether it be watching mindless television, or scrolling aimlessly on the web. He wasted so many days sleeping all fucking day because he'd been up the previous night; and while it'd be one thing if he was doing something productive all night like working on his skills with his guitar, or writing - or anything, that wasn't what he was using the time to do. He has turned into a fucking zombie, and not the cool type, and he thought that was part of his problem. When you're part dead you don't really care if your depression gets better because you're practically drowning in it anyways - least that's what it was like for Frank. He was looking forward to spending the next few weeks working on what mattered, and getting himself better.

Of course, Mysterious-Painter-Guy was still an issue; Frank could ignore that for right now. First he had to get through tonight; he figured if he could go one night, he could go a month's worth of nights. But it was that first night that was the hardest.

Frank sighed and went to make more coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're getting closerrrrrrrr


	4. Breaking the Silence

Ch. 4

He wished he'd brought a calendar.

One week had passed and now Frank wasn't sure what day it was. He'd arrived on a Sunday, so he assumed today was Sunday as well. He'd have to wait and see if his mother tried to call him to be sure.

The past couple of days had gone smoothly. At first it was unnerving; it was so silent sometimes, especially at night. In the mornings the birds were noisy, and he welcomed that, but during the day, it was like he'd been transferred to a world where nothing inhabited forests; where were all the wild creatures that made small, comforting noises?

By the time he discovered a solution, Frank had grown completely used to the slight ringing that absolute silence brought.

He'd been pacing the main hall, just to cause as much noise as he could with his sock feet on the hard wood. He'd started humming too, old songs that were always going to stick to his head. Frank wasn't sure why the silence bothered him so much, because it was actually quite nice, compared to what he was used to. Where he lived, there was always some type of noise, cars in traffic, another couple's conversation, his mother in the other room, the slight hum of the TV. He was so used to background commotion, that when faced with an eerily calm nothingness, he couldn't take it. Suddenly his thoughts were so much louder, and things he didn't want to think about came screaming at him, to fill the large void that noise had left. It was becoming unbearable, all these memories and old voices lashing out at him like vicious vipers - and then his eyes landed on his guitar.

He'd brought it along so he could practice more; he never would have imagined that the instrument would save him from the pressing silence. Frank stopped mid-pace and rushed for the hand-me-down. His mother had bought it for him at some second hand shop, not because she couldn't avoid a brand new one, but because she wasn't convinced he'd stick with it. She wasn't going to spend a shit ton of money to support Frank's new muse if he was just going to quit it after a couple weeks. And while it hurt to admit, this happened a lot. It wasn't on purpose, of course; any time Frank began something new, his intentions had always been to see it out till the end - it just didn't always work out that way. He could understand his mother's reluctance to purchase a new guitar, so he hadn't pushed it. And anyway, the one she did get him was perfect.

Frank sat with the guitar on the couch in the living room and, after making sure it was tuned, begun strumming softly. The noise it made hung in the air long after his fingers had fled the strings, and it was so nice to just hear something other than his own breathing that he played with the strings some more. And for the rest of the day, that's all Frank did: he sat on the couch, guitar in his lap, and found himself getting lost in the chords.

*

After he'd solved that issue, Frank was able to relax more. He was still nervous; he was alone in the middle of the forest, not to mention there was some stranger using his room as a studio, but when he played he was able to forget about that.

Writing also helped.

Bringing a journal had been his mother's idea, and because she had allowed him to do this in the first place, he wasn't about to object. He was never really into writing, at least not the kind he was pushed into doing. The kind where you describe what you're feeling and let out all your thoughts. Those weren't Frank's type of writings: they were far too personal, even if the journal was only for him. He couldn't face his thoughts; they hurt enough just being inside his head, but seeing them down on paper - uh, no thanks. The very, very short period of time where he was forced to go to a shrink, the man had thrown a composition book at Frank and demanded it be filled with his deepest convictions. Even besides this unjust requirement, the whole therapy thing didn't really work well with Frank, and within in a couple of weeks he was, thankfully, removed.

Still, Frank's mother had him pack a note book. He didn't have to write in it, and if he did, it didn't have to have any context; he could make up a bunch of stupid fucking stories and it wouldn't matter. He wasn't required to do anything; which made him less against the whole idea.

Frank started with simple sentences, just banal things that couldn't be interrupted as anything other than what they were.

_I am severely depressed._

_I am alone and I'm not sure how I feel about this._

_My paranoia is getting worse._

He didn't want to really get into his actual, paragraph length thoughts. Those were dangerous. Those were dripping with blood and wrapped in electric fencing; they were guarded for a reason, he didn't want to think about them. Frank knew at some point he'd have to confront his fears and come to terms with all of the things he'd been hoping to forget; that was the only way he'd get better, and anyways, that was the whole point of this retreat. But at the moment, it was still too fucking soon.

*

After his third cup of coffee, Frank found himself lying on the couch, actually falling asleep. How that was fucking possible, he didn't know - the whole point of coffee was to keep you awake. He'd been avoiding sleep like the plague; when asleep, Frank couldn't control anything, his thoughts had their own power and they took fucking advantage of that.

He tried to keep his eyes open for as long as he could. But he kept catching himself teetering on the edge of consciousness, and in the corners of his fluttering eyes, he saw things that definitely didn't belong. His father, walking tall and thick-bodied towards him with a scowl on his face, Frank's mother behind him, her face as blank as the canvases in his room. He'd be saying something to Frank, his voice booming and rough and haunting, but Frank couldn't understand him - would  _never_  understand him, and his father was outraged.

And suddenly Frank was dreaming; only it wasn't a dream - it was a fucking nightmare. All he could see was his dad, tall and intimidating; it was the last time he was in the cabin, alone with just the man he was supposed to call his father.

Frank was screaming, and there was a a constant, like,  _knocking_. He needed to wake up; he could see his father's eyes and no, he could not deal with this right now, not yet.

He woke up to knocking.

While he was glad he was awake, he wasn't glad at all.  _Because someone was knocking._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter for sure Gerard will be introduced. like it says in the tag. slow build. still after we're all friends, but that's how you get a lengthy book, right?


	5. A New Leaf

Ch. 5

It was Sunday, right? That's why there was knocking, right?

Frank tore the sleep from his eyes and stood on shaking legs. It was just the delivery man. It had to be. Frank didn't even need to open the door, because the man his mother hired knew of Frank's situation; he was only knocking to let Frank know there was fresh milk and such on the steps.

Then why was he  _still knocking_?

He shouldn't be going to open the door; he shouldn't be pressing his palm against the metal knob; and he most definitely should  _not_  be opening the fucking door.

Frank wasn't sure what he was expecting, his hands sweaty and his head still full of sleepy fuzz, but it wasn't what he was met with, that's for sure. Standing on his door step in tight black jeans and a band tee was not in the least bit a delivery man.

He wore sunglasses, but when Frank went to meet his eyes, the stranger pushed them back into his raven black hair. His eyes were hazel. "So there is someone living here now." Was the stranger's form of a greeting.

And he didn't even sound ashamed at being caught; he sounded more pissed than anything, kind of awed, but like, what the fuck? He had been breaking and entering; he should be cowering in fear of Frank calling the police. "Uhm, yeah." What was he supposed to say? He was caught in between throwing his accusations at the guy, and drooling over his eyes, because seriously they were the best form of hazel Frank had ever seen. The green that mingled with the light sandy brown was a bright olive, and in the direct sunlight that was shimmering through the leaves, the color seemed to come alive, like liquid pools of Spring.

"You've been painting in my cabin." Frank finally said, and he almost gave himself a round of applause for not sounding as breathless as he felt. It didn't help that his nightmare was still fresh and livid in the forefront of his mind.

"I've been staying in your cabin," The man corrected. But "man" was a loose term because his face was full of youth - he didn't look any older than Frank, but then again, Frank looked younger than his age too. "But now I guess that's come to an end." He raised an eyebrow in question.

Frank wanted to say 'well, fucking duh,' but instead he nodded slowly. How the fuck was this guy so cool about everything - Frank had complete liberty to have this guy pay for breaking into his property, and apparently he hadn't just been staying for a couple hours but for days. Still, Frank wasn't about to do anything and maybe this guy knew that.

"Are you going to invite me in?" The guy in question asked.

"Why bother? It's not like you needed the invitation before." Frank said, surprising himself. He wasn't even all that angry, mostly just wary.

But the man before him only smiled and kind of chuckled. "You're right." He said. "But I'm asking now."

For the life of him, Frank could not understand why he ended up letting the stranger in, but he did. Stepping back, he opened the door wider and Hazel-Eyes followed.

"It's Gerard, by the way." The previously name-less stranger said as he headed towards the back of the cabin, towards Frank's bedroom.

"Frank," Frank replied, following Gerard.

Without warning, Gerard flung open Frank's bedroom door - and frowned. "What happened?" He asked.

Frank looked at him, confused. "What do you mean?" He looked around the room as Gerard was doing; trying to find what was out of place.

"There's furniture." Gerard said simply, stepping into the room, out of the hall.

Frank followed and said, bemused, "Well, yeah. I'm not going to be sleeping on the floor."

Gerard had been heading towards all his paintings which were as Frank left them, leaning haphazardly against the back wall, but at Frank's words he looked back. "You sleep in here?" Frank nodded. "But there's the Master one right across the hall."

As if to make sure it was still there, Frank glanced out the open door towards the room directly parallel. The door was closed, but he imagined it looked the same as the last time he'd been here. He shivered, shook his head. "Yeah," He muttered. "But I sleep here."

Either Gerard didn't really care all that much where Frank slept, or he noticed Frank had become uncomfortable and didn't want to press him anymore, for whichever reason he dropped the subject. "I'll get these out of here for you; I'm betting they've been in the way."

Frank shrugged. "I didn't mind - they're really nice."

Gerard, who had been looking at his own work with an unreadable expression on his face, cocked an eyebrow at Frank. "You think?"

"Yeah." And he pointed to the canvas with the lifeless character amid glowing, cheerful colors. "That's my favorite, I think."

Gerard smiled. His teeth, all small and baby-like, were framed by his thin, pink lips and he seemed genuinely happy that Frank liked what he'd made. It made Frank want to keep complimenting him, or do anything, really, just to keep that smile in place. "Thanks," Gerard said.

And then, while Frank knew that this would go against the entire point of his retreat, that he could be fucking everything up - like always - he let out a breath and said, "If you don't have anywhere else to paint you could, uhm, keep coming here. I mean. I don't, like, mind."

"Really?" He seemed actually surprised, for once. Frank wondered what he was thinking; probably something along the lines of "I've been breaking into your cabin for probably months now - and you're inviting me to come back?" And yeah, Frank was. He wasn't sure why yet, perhaps the loneliness was already starting to affect him and he'd cling to any other human within reach. But he thought part of it had to do with the fact that he was kind of awed by Gerard, not only because of his skills as a painter, but because he came back to the cabin, most likely knowing the owner was inside. It's like he didn't care if he was caught, almost like he  _wanted_  whoever was inside to know it was him who'd been filling the guest room with paintings. Frank would never in his life be like that, and it was the kind of attitude he gravitated towards, for some reason. He saw similarities of his old friends in Gerard, actually, and the thought made him smile.

"Really," He said. He gestured to the paintings. "So you can just keep these here if you want."

Gerard laughed. "Right. You probably just want to keep them for yourself." And in passing Frank on his way out of the room, Gerard bumped his hip against Frank's.

Frank did kind of want to keep them, but he kept this to himself and just laughed, following Gerard out.

"I didn't bring any supplies with me because I was sure I wouldn't be given the opportunity to use them," Gerard explained, reaching for the knob of the front door. "But I'll be back tomorrow."

Frank nodded. "Okay, I'll see you tomorrow then."

Gerard was smiling as he left and called "Tomorrow." over his shoulder before closing the door behind him.

Frank sat on the couch with his journal and wrote real quick before going to make coffee:

_I am a fucking idiot._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love writing this, and i love uploading it. i'm having a blast. thank you.


	6. Frank Overthinks Everything

Ch. 6

When Frank woke up the next morning, he realized two things; one of which being that he had made a huge fucking mistake.

He didn't know anything about Gerard, and yeah, he seemed really cool and like an awesome person to hang out with, the fact still remained that he was basically a complete stranger. A complete stranger that Frank had invited back. And it's not like they're totally secluded in the middle of the forest or anything, where a person could get away with practically everything. God, he couldn't get over how dumb he'd been. Frank tried to pin the blame on the fact that he needed to be around people, no matter who they were, but let's face it: Gerard was gorgeous and Frank wanted to see more of him.

Off the topic of Gerard, because it was starting to make his head hurt, he also came to the conclusion that it had not been Sunday yesterday. His mother had never called him and though there could be a possibility that she'd already forgotten about him, he doubted it. Frank's mother had always been a tad bit overbearing, even before the whole ordeal with his father. He was an only child and what else was she to do than occupy her entire time with him?

There was one, single woodwork clock that hung lopsided on the far wall in the living room. With bleary eyes, Frank read that it was just past twelve in the afternoon. He wasn't sure when he'd gone to bed last night; he'd been spending a lot of time thinking - as always - and trying to distract himself from it by playing guitar. Usually Frank just played the songs he liked and listened to enough that he could remember them, but last night in a last ditch effort to give his brain absolutely no room to think about anything else, Frank attempted to write something. He flipped back through his journal where he jotted down the random notes and pieces that he had tried to form into a song, and let out a sigh. His exhaustion must have convinced him that he'd been doing a decent job - but now in the daylight with little to no sleep in his system, all Frank wanted to do was rip that sheet of paper out and burn it.

He wished he'd brought more books. Reading was almost better than playing the guitar because it was just as time consuming and less disappointing. Frank had made sure to bring his favorites, and a few he hadn't read yet that he was looking forward to reading, but he has to save those. Not even two weeks in and he was already bored; he'd tear through those paper backs within hours, and he needed to save those hours for when he was really desperate.

Because he was so mind-blowingly bored, of course Frank's masochistic brain began to think of all the things he would be doing if he were home. It was Summer, so he'd be probably being staying up all night watching movies. Not that he didn't do that during the school year, but when his grades were on the line, Frank usually knew when to cut himself off. Usually. And, God, a movie would be perfect right now. He was really into horror movies, and at the moment he was almost craving a zombie movie. But one where the zombies were slightly faster than your average shuffling vegetable; it made the whole two or so hours more entertaining and gasp worthy.

Frank walked a lot too. Technically he should be driving; he'd taken the courses at school and was decent enough, but he just couldn't be bothered to go through the routine of it all. And he liked walking. It took longer and allowed his thoughts to wander in a progressive way. He felt like a slob when he did basically the same thing - thinking - in his room, because there he was just sitting or lying and there was nothing productive in that. As much as Frank hated the thoughts that ran through his head, the anxiety and depression, he hated just  _being_. He was convinced that all he did when at home was take up space; at least at school he was there for a reason. That's probably why he tried so hard to succeed academically, honestly, because it was really the only thing he could do.

He wasn't even good at making friends. Sure, there'd been a few acquaintances across the years, some he could nod hello to even now in senior year, but somehow Frank always fucked it up. He'd be sure he'd said something weird, or had been annoying, and he'd distance himself because he figured that's what his friends wanted. Who would want to be friends with him anyways? He sucked at making conversation, and always came off as kind of a jerk when that's just how he spoke - people always ended up taking him the wrong way. Or at least, he assumed they did. He never stuck around long enough to be sure.

Perhaps that's part of the reason he did not want Gerard coming back. Frank was convinced that as of yesterday, they left off nicely; Frank hadn't been too terribly awkward and Gerard had seemed genuine enough - Frank hadn't sensed any of that forced niceness a lot of people possessed around him. So why couldn't they just stay like that? Gerard had been intriguing and Frank had been decent and he didn't want to ruin his image - he didn't want the artist to see what Frank was really like; he wanted to stay in his good graces. If Gerard came back - and continued coming back - he would eventually see what a fucking wreck Frank really was.

Just as Frank went to make more coffee, there was a knock at the door. He paused, wondering if maybe he shouldn't answer. Maybe their brief meeting could stay the way it was. But Frank knew he was going to open the door even before he let that thought process.

 


	7. Seven Hours

Ch. 7

His expression must have said it all, because after Frank invited him in, Gerard smirked and asked:

"Was it the fact that I actually knocked, or that I came back at all?"

Frank pushed through all the screaming thoughts in his skull and said, "Kind of both." He vaguely considered allowing his dark thoughts to paint his face, making Gerard leave, but fuck, Frank couldn't purposefully be a dick. That just wasn't him. And, really, he didn't want to be. "Why did you come back?" He found himself asking. "I mean, for all you know I'm a psychotic killer." There was a non-verbal agreement that this question went both ways.

Gerard laughed. Or maybe it was a giggle - either way it was cute. "Hate to break it to you, Frank, but you're quite short. I'm not feeling very threatened."

His height had always been kind of a sore spot for him, he'd always been very aware of it, but with Gerard it didn't sting. Frank just laughed back, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, whatever."

"Can you help me with my things?" Gerard asked as he headed out the front door. An SUV painted red and dusty with the pollen and dead leaves of the forest sat in the drive way. Frank hadn't ever thought about the fact that Gerard had to be having a way to actually get to this secluded cabin; for some reason Frank couldn't imagine him driving.

He followed him outside, but was very aware of the fact that he was nervous. Things. What things would Gerard need to be bringing in? He didn't plan on staying here, right? Or did Frank not make that clear? He'd invited him back but for hourly visits, not weekly. "Uhm, what things?" He asked, standing hesitantly on the wooden porch.

"Imagination can only take you so far, Frank. Paints and brushes and, ya' know, supplies do come in handy." He smirked over at Frank while lifting the trunk to his car.

Frank tried not to visibly show his relief. "Right,"

He stepped off the porch onto the crunching leaves and felt some realization come to him. He hadn't left the cabin in - fuck, how many days has it been? He looked around in a kind of awe; it was summer, so of course it'd be hot, but in the shade of the interlocking branches high above them, he felt cool. He could smell the fresh turned dirt that Gerard's tires had run through, and that, mixed with the bark and the leaves was such a familiar scent. It was one of those combinations of smells that anyone could pick out, that you sometimes forget to appreciate. Frank hadn't even realized that he had. He'd been locking himself in that cabin, groaning in boredom, when there was this large, fucking beautiful forest all around him. It was teeming with life and escape and he had every right to take advantage of it. Suddenly he had a huge urge to just walk; heading in the direction of the back of the cabin, obviously, since heading towards the front would mean meeting streets and roads and humans. And for a second he almost did it - then he remembered Gerard.

Currently he was struggling with multiple paint cans, probably trying to get as many as he could in one trip. Frank shook himself from his daze and ran forward to help.

"Sorry," He said. He grabbed two cans by their handles, and when he was confident that he could manage another, Frank let one of the handles rest in the hollow of his elbow and reached forward to grab another.

"Let's set them in the living room," Gerard called over his shoulder as the two headed back inside. "If that's okay."

Frank nodded. "Totally,"

"'Cause the fumes ya' know?"

Frank smiled in agreement, and together they unloaded the rest of Gerard's trunk; there was an easel and more blank canvases that ended up leaning against the wall. The living room which, besides Frank's guitar, had been pretty vacant and lifeless had now come to serve purpose. They set Gerard's easel in the center of the room, almost positioned in the way a TV would be, in front of the small couch and coffee table, and gathered the paints around it. Gerard had an empty paint can full of a bunch of different types of brushes, and he let it clang onto the table with a smile.

"And I'm moved in."

Frank's response was a lame "Do you want anything? I was gonna make coffee."

Gerard's eyes lit up. "Yes!"

Laughing, Frank headed to the kitchen to start the machine while Gerard set up a new canvas. Seeing this from where he stood, Frank's eyebrows rose. "You're painting?"

"That's what I came here to do, right?" He was already opening up cans.

Frank shrugged, pouring liquid energy into two mugs. "I just thought there was like, I don't know, a process beforehand. I didn't think you'd just paint." After he spoke, Frank realized how stupid he sounded. His face felt hot when he brought out the mugs.

"It's art, not math." Gerard took his mug with a smile, his other hand holding a brush.

Frank felt sort of awkward, coffee mug in hand, standing behind his new sort of house mate. He wasn't sure if he should keep talking; sure he had a lot of questions and wanted to converse with the artist, but maybe Gerard wanted silence so he could work. Frank didn't know and he didn't want to be rude, so he made way to his guitar and was about to head outside, so as not to cause unwanted noise, when Gerard's head shot up.

"Where're you going?"

Frank's free hand had been on the door handle, his coffee forgotten on the table, but he paused. "Outside. I - uhm, didn't want to bother you."

Gerard's eyebrows furrowed against his forehead and he wore a frown to match. "It's your cabin Frank, if anything I'm bothering you." He smiled. "And anyway, I can hardly think in the silence. Talk to me - or play," He gestured to the guitar. "Just make some noise."

Shrugging, Frank settled himself against the couch. He didn't feel like playing anymore. "What did you do before?" He asked, and when he was met with a confused look, he said, "About the silence."

Gerard turned back to his blank canvas, fingers gripping a paint brush and - was that a slight blush rising in his pale cheeks? He mumbled, "I'd sing. Or, like, kind of talk to myself?" He kept his back to Frank, as though this was some sort of horrible confession, but Frank felt comforted somehow by Gerard's slight embarrassment. Up until now he had felt like the only one slightly uncomfortable.

"Never thought to bring like, a CD player or something?" He asked jokingly.

When Gerard turned around, Frank met him with a smile. "Shit," He said, finally letting a spray of black blossom on the white. Frank found himself very interested in what the picture would turn out to be. "I never thought this place had outlets."

As he progressed on his project, Frank watched with eager eyes. He'd never been all that talented when it came to art - drawing and painting was never his thing. But he envied those who could create things like that, just spit out the beautiful things they had made in their mind and make it physical, as if it were the easiest fucking thing in the world. Sure he could make music, and depending on how good it was, sometimes Frank found he could see a mental image of what the chords represented, or at least what he thought they represented, but he could never do that. At least, not yet. He was good, but not amazing. He had a long way to go. Looking at Gerard's painting - which wasn't even done yet but already was starting to look fucking sick - and the ones he'd already finished, Frank wondered how long it took him to get this good, and how much more he could improve. Because seriously, Gerard was becoming Frank's favorite artist.

"Can you play me something?" Gerard said all of a sudden. Frank blinked, lost in his head for a moment. More colors, though relatively dark and gloomy had begun to wash over the canvas. There was hardly any white left.

"Uh," Frank looked at the guitar in his lap, momentarily forgetting how to play. "Any requests?"

Gerard paused for a minute to turn around and smile. "Anything will do."

Frank thought. It would be easy to just play a song he'd performed many times before, that he knew would sound nice, but that didn't seem fair. Gerard wasn't re-painting something he'd already done just to impress Frank and make sure he did it well; he was creating something new, knowing it could turn out horrible, knowing Frank would be there to bear witness if it did. Frank wasn't about to give him any less than he was receiving.

He began to strum aimlessly to warm himself up, then started up on the only song he'd ever actually finished making. He'd made it a while ago actually, after a painful nightmare, he thinks - he couldn't quite remember and trying to focus on anything other than the strings beneath his hands proved difficult. Either way, this song had been created and it was easy to remember and so he was playing it. Frank doubted he sounded all that great; he was nervous and was starting to remember, just slightly, how this piece was made, what had brought it on, and that was definitely making it harder to play, but he kept going. His eyes were closed and it helped with making his movements less choppy and more graceful, moving with a lot more ease than he originally started out with.

When he finished, the last sounds still echoed slightly in the following silence. He realized he'd never played in front of anyone before - and a whole other round of nervousness rose within him.

He dared glancing up to see if Gerard had been listening at all, and instantly their eyes met, hazel on hazel. " _Frank_ ," He said, all wide smile and small teeth. "That was great - you wrote that?"

Frank nodded, unsure how to respond to the compliment. He drank some of his coffee which, unfortunately had gone kind of lukewarm, bridging on the edge of cold, but it was easier than looking for an acceptable response.

"How long have you been playing for?" Gerard had, thankfully, turned back to his work, so Frank let his eyes up from the wood floor, ran his gaze over what Gerard had added.

Admittedly, he hadn't been playing for a long time. Frank had convinced his mother to purchase the second-hand guitar a couple years ago, but it took him some months afterwards to actually begin working at it. They didn't have the money to send him to lessons, so he had to teach himself and the idea had made him stray away from the instrument for the longest time. Frank would like to say he'd been playing for four years, because four years ago his mother bought him the thing, but in reality it was more like three years. So that's what he replied with.

"Well, I couldn't tell," Gerard said. "Sounds like you've been playing a lot longer."

Frank rolled his eyes at that - no he didn't, Gerard was just being overly nice because Frank was letting him use his cabin. "How long have you been painting?" He rethought his question. "Or like, doing artsy stuff?" Because obviously there was a lot more to creating art than painting.

Gerard seemed amused by the question, probably the terminology, but he said, "Pretty much since I was able to, ya' know?" He paused, then continued, "Like, I've always drawn and whatnot, and was into, like, comic books and kind of recreating that style. It kind of seemed natural to just start painting, too."

Frank found himself admiring the fact that this was a lifelong thing of Gerard's. He wasn't sure why; but it definitely explained why he was so good.

It didn't feel like a long time had passed before Gerard stopped painting and took his used brushes over to the kitchen. Frank had been staring out one of the windows bordering the front door, not wanting to disturb Gerard, and also still really wanting to go walking through the forest. It was comfortable just to have someone else in the room with him as well; the silence that had formed wasn't awkward and hadn't needed to be filled, it was nice. Frank blinked rapidly when Gerard walked passed him, caught surprised by the sudden change.

"Uh," Frank looked uncertainly at the canvas. "I don't know if it was intentional but, it doesn't look finished." After the words left his mouth, Frank realized how rude he sounded, but he wasn't met with an annoyed glare or some snappy retort; over the sound of the running sink, Frank heard Gerard laugh.

"I'm not finished." He came back out with glistening, freshly washed brushes, and let them sink in the empty paint can.

Frank was confused as to why Gerard would stop now - until he looked at the clock. It was nearly seven. "Shit," He muttered.

Gerard followed his gaze and nodded. "Yeah, I know, I almost didn't realize either."

Frank led him to the door and asked almost shyly, "So you'll be back tomorrow?"

"Yep - but, later. Work and whatnot."

Frank nodded and smiled. Even if there hadn't been crazy amounts of conversation, he really enjoyed Gerard's company. "Okay. See you tomorrow, then."

"Tomorrow."


	8. Frank Has Issues

Ch. 8

His mother called not even ten minutes after the door closed behind Gerard.

Frank had jumped; he hadn't been aware today was Sunday. He'd been meaning to ask Gerard while he was here, but their conversations, while few, had steered in a different direction, making him forget. It took him so fucking long to one, realize what was making that irritating beeping tone, and then actually find the damn thing that he almost missed the call.

"Hello!" He was breathless still.

"Frank," His mother put so much suspicion and doubt into that one word, he's surprised she managed to say it so quietly. "What took you so long to answer?"

"Couldn't find the phone,"

"You're okay then?" And that's when Frank realized why she sounded apprehensive. It wasn't because she thought he was doing something wrong; she was worried about him. "How has the first week gone?"

"It's been ... Difficult. But, the necessary type, you know? Like, I'm - I'm okay." He wasn't making sense and he knew it, but his mom had put up with his ramblings for the past seventeen years - she was used to it by now and could easily understand.

"Our friends at the church think what you're doing is really brave; they can't wait for you to return happier and healthier."

This was probably meant to cheer Frank up and give him support, but despite his religious upbringing, Frank wasn't really into it. He endured it for his mother's sake, to keep her happy, but Sundays were literally his least favorite days. He didn't even like the members of their church, and he knew they didn't like him either, so all this bullshit about him being brave totally passed through his ears. What the fuck ever.

"That's nice," He said absently. "Thanks for the coffee machine," He added, not only changing the topic but also showing appreciation.

Frank would like to say he's a good kid. He disagreed with some of the things his mother did and some of her opinions, but he wasn't obnoxious about it and didn't try to convert her to his own beliefs. Like when he decided to become a vegetarian; his mother had disproved, but wasn't about to stop him; they worked like that. Always very understanding towards each other. After the incident with his father, their relationship grew even stronger, if that were possible, and half the time they weren't mother-and-son, they were Linda-and-Frank, which was just as well.

That being said, his mom noticed the abrupt topic change, knew the reason why, but didn't object. They talked for a short while longer on the importance of coffee, especially considering Frank's situation, and the woods and how Frank planned on making it a little less unknown; and then they said their goodbyes and obligatory "I love you's." Frank hung up the phone, feeling somehow better. Not that he was uneasy before, but their nice, stress free phone call, along with Gerard's visit had eased him. Of course, Gerard wasn't supposed to be visiting, he knew this, and if his mother knew Frank would be in deep shit, but it was too late now. It was Gerard's cabin as much as Frank's, really.

He made a small dinner of some baked vegetables with a random dressing he found in the fridge, then wrote some more in his journal. He found himself doodling in a not-really-paying-attention sort of way, but it turned to shit and he scribbled over it in pen. He was going to stay away from drawing.

*

The next morning - morning meaning noon when Frank finally woke up - Frank helped himself to coffee and eagerly got dressed. He'd taken habit to sticking to sweat pants and the same t-shirt since he had no real reason to look presentable. Though, maybe now he should start putting some consideration into his appearance, what with Gerard coming over. It was nice outside, cool under the canopy of wide leaves and branches, so Frank felt fine with some jeans and a t-shirt. He pulled on his ratty Converse, pocketed his cell phone just in case, and headed out the door.

It was fucking gorgeous outside. Seriously, the sun was placed directly in the center of the clear blue sky and shafts of the pure yellow fell down into the forest floor at random intervals. The whole forest, covered in bright greens and deep browns, yellows and oranges, was practically shimmering. Or maybe that was just Frank; this was the first time he really stepped out and actually appreciated the nature around him, perhaps he was just starry eyed.

He trekked through to the back of the cabin, turning up moist mulch in the process. There was more shrubbery and vine type things that he had to maneuver through to go farther into the woods, but once he got passed them it was pretty clear. There were random patches of tall grass and low hanging branches; thorny vegetation and other forest-y obstacles, but it was oddly relaxing going through the movements of pushing apart flexible branches and ducking under large leaves. He tried to pay attention to the grass on the ground, or what of the grass he could see beneath the dead leaves that had accumulated, because he didn't want to accidentally wander into poison ivy or something. And it was nice walking through everything, despite random thorns poking his fingers and tripping over roots, because he wasn't hot; the interlocking webs above were good at blocking out most of the sun's heat, and out here he felt like he had so much room.

He felt his thoughts run free, and fuck, he'd never felt so light. It would be very easy to just let himself get distracted by the actual movements of moving through the forest, but he didn't want to avoid his thoughts. The whole point of being out here in the first place was to confront everything that had been bothering him for the past couple years.

Of course, it was easier said than done. When he tried to bring up the image of his father, or the master bedroom at the cabin, or his kitchen back at home, he visibly shivered, his blood turning to ice. This made him feel weak: it always did. Always. What type of fucking pansy was he? Before, right after his father was put away, Frank would feel so fucking wasted and useless and just - lifeless. It was his therapist - admittedly the therapist he'd only had for like, a week, not even - that told him over and over again that Frank shouldn't feel less than his father or anyone else just because of what happened. In fact, he had said Frank should feel greater than them, because he was stronger, he had survived. But had he? Look at him - recluse in some cabin, running from his home and memories, hardly getting better at all. His father had left him a hollow, cracking shell, just as he had intended.

But he was going to fix himself; he knew he could, already he was better than those first few weeks and months afterwards. Back then, Frank had been nothing more than a shadow, he didn’t sleep or eat or speak, not even to his mother. His room had become this cave that reeked of smoke and sweat and unwanted tears, and it took everything in him to leave his bed every morning and go through the ridiculous motions of school. Because of Frank's height and all around differentness, he was always picked on, and when his bullies saw that he was emotionally - and physically - weaker, they pounced on it, beating him down even further. Lucky for Frank, Summer was literally just around the corner, and in ending his sophomore year, Frank emerged from school a crumbling mess. The sight of him, with still healing wounds that would get reopened everyday from his bullies, grossly thin and in no mood to do anything ever, is what drove his mother to really enlist in help. Therapy obviously didn't work, but there were these slightly better groups he'd attend every other day during that Summer, and somehow, they worked. He didn't speak much, mostly listening to everyone else's stories, and in doing that, Frank realized he had it really good. Or, at least he had it a whole lot better than those around him. He had to stop being fucking sorry for himself and dwelling on the past events; he had to just move the fuck on.

He was still in that process, the moving on one. Nightmares plagued him and sometimes he'd get flashbacks that resulted in panic attacks, but he was better - or that's what he told himself. Because if he let himself think for one second that he was just as low as he was before, all his motivation and strength would turn to dust around him. Frank had to believe he was stronger than he actually was, that false security was the only thing keeping him going.


	9. Gerard Makes Frank Happy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)

Ch. 9

Frank may have gotten lost on his way back to the cabin. Maybe. It really wasn’t intentional – he knew Gerard would be coming back sometime in the afternoon, and he didn’t want to miss him. But he’d spent a long time in those woods, and while he thought he’d been heading straight on, he must have made turns and roundabouts at some point. Getting back was not as easy as getting out had been.

When he did manage to return, the sky was a completely different color. The bright, cloudless blue from before had faded to a mixture of deep purples and light pinks. He couldn’t see the sun, for it was too low in the horizon, and there were too many trees blocking the way. It had actually started to get a little chilly, and the lack of heat from the sun made it all the more worse.

What was also different was the appearance of Gerard’s SUV. Frank was surprised, but almost as soon as the surprise faded, a pleasant warmth spread from his stomach and down to his toes. Perhaps he should be upset that Gerard still didn’t feel the need to have him there to go inside, but on the contrary it made him feel like they had some kind of trust. It was similar in the way two best friends can go over to each other’s house without the other one being there. And it wasn’t the same at all, Frank knew this, but that’s what it _felt_ like. And it was nice.

He opened the door and a waft of paint fumes blew into his face. He wondered if Gerard actually painted in his own house, and whether or not this was the smell he was greeted to each time he walked in. The man in question was stood at his easel, working on the same piece as yesterday and in relatively the same clothes. Frank remembered him saying he had to work today; what kind of job could be good enough for someone with so much talent?

Gerard noticed immediately when Frank walked in. “Frank!” He lays down his paint brush and rushes over to Frank who is still standing in the entry way. “Are you okay? I was wondering where you went.”

Something weird and fluttery wiggled in Frank’s stomach at the thought of Gerard being worried about him. But he just grinned and said, “Weren’t worried enough not to break in again.” He shrugs off his shoes and goes to plop on the couch, Gerard trailing after him like a lost puppy. “I was just walking around the woods. I hadn’t left this place in weeks, I was going stir crazy.”

Gerard’s eyebrows furrow, little crease lines forming between them. The corners of his lips are turned downward, and Frank kind of really wants to smooth his entire face out with his fingers. “Are you like, under house arrest, or something?”

Frank freezes. He knew this would come up at some point. Gerard seemed like a pretty observant guy, and it wasn’t too hard to miss that Frank was _always_ here. There was no car parked outside, no bike, no form of transportation at all. Mentioning the fact that he hadn’t left the cabin in weeks hadn’t helped avoid the conversation, either. But that was Frank’s own fault. He wasn’t sure why he didn’t want to explain it all to Gerard; Frank knew he needed this, and in a way he needed Gerard too, at least a little. Because while the idea to stay alone for a while did make sense, it just wasn’t humanly possible, at least not for Frank. He needed something, someone, even if it was just for two days a week. It would be enough. But Frank could not be alone for the rest of the summer, it would make things worse, probably, maybe, Frank didn’t _know_. All the things his thoughts were continuously changing each time he saw Gerard. Frank knew he was still fucked up, okay, but Gerard – Gerard made him feel _better_ , somehow; maybe it was the art, or just the way Gerard acted, like even if he was wrong he was still right. Frank didn’t know, didn’t really want to know. He was content to take in Gerard’s presence for as long as he could.

And because of all this, he felt – not comfortable, but able, to tell Gerard the truth.   
“I was going through some shit,” Frank says, not looking at him. “It all kind of messed me up, so I thought I needed like, time away. But up until now it kind of sucked.”

“You should never isolate yourself when you’re in a bad place.” Gerard says seriously, sitting down next to Frank on the couch. “You should have surrounded yourself with positive people that make you happy.”

“I have now,”

For a moment, everything is silent. Frank can hear the dying cries of the birds, and the beginnings of crickets. He is acutely aware of Gerard’s knee touching his and the feel of his skin over his bones. Then Gerard just kind of _smiles_ at him, teeth and all, and Frank doesn’t know why, doesn’t really care because he likes the way Gerard’s smile reaches all the way up to his eyes.

Gerard says, “You shouldn’t be alone.”

Frank shrugs. “I like it better here than my house. It’s okay.”

Gerard narrows his eyes, brows pulling in close, and again Frank just wants to _touch_. Instead he mimics the other’s face, exaggerating a little bit to get the point across, and eventually Gerard rolls his eyes and stands up. Frank watches him grab his paint brush from where he left it resting on the coffee table, and starts up again.

Looking at what he has done so far, after just the second day, Frank feels a small smidge of envy. He can’t _create_ like that. The dark swirls and the emancipated marching band strolling across the scene all came from just Gerard’s mind. Frank doesn’t even understand how that’s possible. He wonders if you can be taught to do things like that, but as soon as he wonders, he realizes, no, you can’t. It’s something you just do, that you naturally know how to do. It’s different for Frank and his guitar. Yes, he had to practice a shit ton and often got frustrated with his inability to form the sounds that he imagined in his head, but the thing was, there were sounds in his head. Even without a guitar in his hands, Frank knew enough now that he’ll think of random chords that’ll sound good together and envision playing them in his mind. He wonders if that’s how it works for Gerard. He kind of wants to ask, wants to be clarified in his hoping that he has the same type of ingenious creative mind like Gerard’s.

When it starts to get dark, Frank goes around flicking on the lights, and grabs his guitar. Gerard smiles over his shoulder at him as he starts to play.


	10. Panic

Ch. 10

The following week passes in a blissful haze. Gerard began coming over every day, sometimes before noon, even, and while Frank was surprised beyond measure, he was also equally as happy. The first time he showed up, Monday, it was only around ten thirty – Frank didn’t even know why he was up already – and while Frank knew Gerard could be the only one knocking on his door, he still went into panic mode. Because it was Monday, and it was _ten thirty_ , Gerard never came over that early.

It had taken him almost ten minutes of heavy breathing and clenching then unclenching his fists, but Frank did manage to open the front door. He knew it would be Gerard, of course he did, but still, seeing him waiting in the tall archway, with the bright green leaves and sunshine framing him – Frank wanted to kiss him. “Jesus Christ,” He breathed, leaning a little on the door frame, suddenly exhausted.

“You alright?” Gerard asks, proceeding to let himself inside.

“What are you doing here?” Frank asked, shutting the door, effectively removing the smell of sunlight and the louder noises of the forests’ morning.

Gerard shrugged. “I was bored, and I wanted to hang out.” His olive eyes meet Frank’s, and despite his nonchalant words, his eyes are sincere and open. “Is that okay?”

And that’s kind of how it went the rest of the week. If Gerard wasn’t coming at the usual time to paint and continuously amaze Frank, he was coming over to hang out with Frank. Just because. He didn’t understand at all; he just wasn’t someone people voluntarily chose to be around. While he absolutely _loved_ it, loved talking to about pointless things like if Iron Man and Captain America went up in a real honest to god fight who would win, (Frank said they wouldn’t fight, they would attempt to intimidate each other and then end up making out, which had Gerard laughing so hard, Frank was frightened he might suffocate), and he loved discussing bigger things, things that mattered. And it didn’t matter if Gerard monopolized all the talking, Frank liked listening to him, and he told him that each time Gerard tried to apologize for talking so much. Frank could easily be led to a death of pointed rocks by a Gerard siren. Now, even when Gerard was painting, he was talking with Frank, asking him what he thought, taking his ideas and throwing them together into something magical.

A small part of Frank – very, very small – knew he shouldn’t be so trusting. He smiled when Gerard knocked, and he ached to see him go. This was bad. This was so bad; Frank didn’t even want to think about it. But he had to, because Gerard didn’t seem to be stopping anytime soon. For some reason, he enjoyed Frank’s company, maybe as much as Frank enjoyed his. And it boggled his mind. He _listened_ to Frank, asked him questions – he acted like he really cared. Frank had never been given this much attention from anyone other than his parents, and while disorienting, it made his entire body feel warm, made him feel like he existed. And yet. And yet, he did not know Gerard. At all. The things they talked about were meaningless, really, and while interesting, they were trivial. He didn’t even know how old Gerard was, and while it didn’t matter all that much, at the same time it kind of did. What did he do when we wasn’t here? Why did he come here in the first place? To this cabin? How did he find it, and what made him think it was okay to take it over for himself? There were so many things Frank needed to know, but couldn’t ask.

But maybe this was a two way street. Maybe Gerard was wondering things about Frank, too. If Frank opened up, would Gerard?

It was Friday, around eleven thirty. Frank was just about to start a pot of coffee when Gerard walked in. They were past the point of knocking now, especially considering Gerard used to break in.

Frank asks, “Do you even have a job?”

Gerard, who had come to stand in the kitchen with Frank, leaning against the relatively small kitchen table, blushed a little. Shook his head. “No. I lied, before. Didn’t know you yet, didn’t want to overstay my welcome.”

Frank handed him an empty mug, letting him ready himself to prepare his cup. “Figured. I assumed your ‘job’ was selling your paintings.” When Gerard nodded, smiling, Frank took a nervous breath, waiting a minute to listen to the groaning and trickling of the coffee pot. Then, “Do you live nearby? How did you even find this place?”

Gerard nods again, shrugs. “Like an hour or something away. And I was told about it by a friend. They told it me was abandoned.”

When the pot is done, Frank gratefully turns around to hide his face. He takes too long to pour the black, steaming liquid in his robin egg blue mug. He wants to talk about important things; he wants to _know_ Gerard, but he can’t find the words, can’t find the courage. He can feel Gerard behind him, solid and radiating heat, and while it’s usually comforting, right now he feels overwhelmed. There are too many questions, too many things he doesn’t understand, and he already has his own problems, his own shit to sort out, he doesn’t need to worry about Gerard.

He’s hyperventilating now, he knows he is. His hands shake, the coffee in his mug swaying dangerously, little droplets burning his hand. But he can’t stop. It’s too much, this cabin is too small, he can’t breathe and Gerard is perfect but who is he, Frank doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything and it’s breaking him.

“Frank?” Gerard’s voice is soft, hesitant. He doesn’t know this side of Frank, all he’s ever seen is the one that laughs and jokes, pretends there’s nothing wrong with him.

“I can’t,” Frank can’t speak. “I can’t – I’m sorry – I can’t breathe. Can’t,” He drops his mug on the counter, it lands heavily, most of the liquid sloshing out, dripping down onto the floor. He doesn’t know where he’s heading, outside or his room, but it doesn’t matter because Gerard grabs his arm, stops him.

“Come sit down on the couch.” And then he’s guiding Frank, who is all shaking limbs and disconnected thoughts. He kind of thinks he’s crying, maybe, or just sweating a lot. He thinks if it weren’t for Gerard holding him up, he would have fallen over. When they’re sat down and settled, Gerard is pressed close up to Frank, thighs touching, and he forces Frank to look at him. “Breathe for me. Please Frank? You have to breathe.”

Frank was trying. He really was, because his chest was starting to hurt, his head going light. But more than anything he felt so embarrassed, he never wanted Gerard to see him like this, and Frank knew now he would never come back. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” And now he is crying, at least a little bit, his face feels sticky, wet, and that just makes it worse. He tries to turn away, to hide, but Gerard won’t let him.

“Frank, shut up. Stop talking and breathe. And stop apologizing. Please, you don’t need to apologize. Its okay, I understand. You’re having a panic attack, just – do you want me to keep talking, is it helping?”

Frank nods, because it was. Gerard’s voice was soothing in its tone and timbre. If Gerard just kept talking, and he kept breathing, maybe he would survive this. So Gerard kept talking, Frank couldn’t really pay too much attention, the noise was filtering in and out like a flicking candle. But it was some time of story - he was reciting Star Wars. Frank wanted to laugh, because, fuck, this guy was a dork and Frank _loved_ it – and he didn’t stop until Frank sagged against him, suddenly exhausted and hurting.

Gerard weaves his fingers through Frank’s hair, and it makes Frank want to fall asleep. But he can’t because he just had a _panic attack_ in front of Gerard. He wants to pull away but he’s too comfortable, too far gone past the point of caring. The damage has been done. He says, “I’m really sorry.” Though it doesn’t come out as clear as he wants it.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop apologizing?” Gerard doesn’t sound angry, he sounds sad, gentle. “What the fuck, Frank, it’s not your fault.”

“I just … I didn’t want you to see how fucked up I am.” He’s kind of saying this into Gerard’s armpit, with the way they’re positioned, but at that Gerard makes him sit up, looks right into his eyes.

“If you’re fucked up, then so am I. You’re not – I get them too.”

Frank can’t understand how. Like at all. Gerard can’t have panic attacks, or anxiety or – anything. He always appear so happy to Frank, confident in himself and just so not like Frank. And he knows he kind of fakes it too, but Gerard isn’t just faking it. His eyes are always so bright and his paintings – his paintings. His paintings are dark and sad and – yeah, depressed. Frank understands now, at least a little bit. Gerard has an outlet. He turns his sadness and negative thoughts into beautiful art, and that’s how he’s able to be so energetic, so upbeat. But Frank doesn’t have that. An outlet. He has his guitar, but it doesn’t soothe him, half the time it just makes him more upset. Because he can never get it the way he hears it in his head, and his fingers are too sensitive, they fumble over the strings and the sounds echo horribly around him. Most of the time.

“Still.” Frank mumbles, unable to look him directly in the eyes. “You shouldn’t have had to – you don’t even know me.”

“I’ve been trying to Frank.” Gerard insists. “And this is why you can’t be alone, you shouldn’t be alone. Panic attacks are – well, you know.” He stops, seeming to deliberate on whether or not he should say his next sentence. “What happened?”

Frank inhales deeply, not prepared to answer such a seemingly small question. What happened? Does he mean why did Frank start panicking, or does he mean why Frank gets panic attacks in the first place. Both are hard to even contemplate let alone answer. He wishes Gerard could read his mind, this being the only time. Words are so hard to form sometimes, either his mouth doesn’t pronounce it right, or something different comes out altogether. He’s too tired to get worked up again, but his body is trying. He’s clutching the edge of the couch, hands going white, his head beginning to hurt like a migraine; he’s never had one before but he thinks this is what it feels like.

“What triggered it? Why are you here?” Gerard persists, and Frank looks up at him, breath escaping him.

“Loss of control,” Frank says. “Not knowing things. It – I get – anxious, a lot, easily.” He pauses, and Gerard nods, eyes filled with understanding, and his hand rests over Franks, he doesn’t know why, maybe to comfort, or just to keep Frank grounded, he doesn’t know. But whatever that hand is trying to do, it is achieving. “And, uhm, last year my dad – he – he did some things to me. Fucked me up. This – this used to be … our cabin. I, uhm, thought I needed to face everything head on, like exposure therapy, or whatever. But it’s not – I’m still fucked up.”

For a moment, Gerard doesn’t speak. He stares at Frank, just stares, and while it unnerves Frank, there is nothing cruel in his gaze. It’s more like he’s evaluating everything he’s just heard, and is processing it appropriately so he can say the right thing.  Frank meanwhile is shaking again, so nervous as to what will become of this confession. He’s come to rely on Gerard’s visits; they distract him in the best way possible, and not only that but he really _likes_ Gerard. He didn’t want to see Gerard walk away from him, but he could understand if he did. Frank is beginning to think this whole idea was stupid, he should have just stayed at home and in therapy. Maybe if he had given it more of a try, it would worked. Maybe if he let his therapists prescribe those drugs, and actually took them, maybe –

“Can I move into the master bedroom?”

Frank almost chokes. He looks at Gerard, who looks very nonchalant and open, his eyes wide and round, piercing Frank still. “What?” He doesn’t understand, he does not understand at all.

“I really, _really_ do not want to leave you alone.” Gerard explains. “You shouldn’t have secluded yourself, Frank. And I don’t want to show up one day to an empty house, or to your _body_.”

“What, dude no, I’m not going to –“ He can’t say the words because he could be potentially lying. The thoughts had crossed his mind in the beginning. A lot. He can remember lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, his stomach aching and his bones quivering, just thinking _why am I still alive_? And he had contemplated it, so many times. It would make him want to scream, because he wanted it, god, in the beginning he had wanted it so bad. Everything hurt, so much; he couldn’t sleep and nothing was helping. At the time he thought nothing could help. But he knew no matter how bad it got, he couldn’t hurt himself. No more than he already had, anyway. He would think of his mom, who loved him so much and just wanted him to be happy, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to do it. For her. Not for him. At that point, he hadn’t cared about himself anymore.

Gerard must have read it on his face because he nods. “Yeah, exactly. It’s okay, alright? I’m asking because I care about you.” He actually looks away for once, his cheeks tinting bright pink. “And I want to be here for you, literally, okay? So, like, just let me?”

Frank wants to – he doesn’t even fucking know. He wants to cry, because it’s all so much, but he always to laugh until his sides ache because he is just so fucking happy. He really is. This is what Gerard does to him. He starts smiling. “Yeah,” He says. “Yeah, okay,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate every single comment and kudos; I want to respond to every one of them, but (like Frank) I am afraid of saying something wrong/stupid.


	11. Frank Likes Twizzlers

Ch. 11

Frank had only ever lived with his parents, and then, after last year, just him and his mom. And he believed that there was a system to living with people, and every system was different. With his mom, it was like – they knew the other person was there, but they kind of moved without being aware of each other. It hadn’t always been like that; Frank can remember, when he was younger, talking to his mom from a different room, blaring the radio in the kitchen and watching movies together late at night. Those were days when his dad would be out at work, or on a trip; when he returned, the house was a war zone. Frank would be afraid to step too hard in fear of his father thinking he was stomping; afraid to talk to his mom too loudly because that would be shouting and kids weren’t supposed to be loud. He hoped that after all this, he and his mom would reorganize their system.

You needed to know a person to have a well working system. Frank hardly knew Gerard. Did he sing in the shower? Was he a night owl like Frank sometimes was? Would they run into each other at night when their thoughts were too loud, making it impossible to sleep? Frank knew he’d find out, but he wanted to _know_ , now.

Thankfully, Gerard did not move in all at once. He gave Frank a couple of days to adjust to the idea while he slowly brought in more and more of his things. Very little of it was clothes; a lot of it was art supplies – sketch books and leather wrapped pencils, that looked like regular fucking pencils to Frank, but apparently they were very expensive. For those few days of _before_ , things remained the way they had been for the past week. Kind of pleasantly boring, just the two of them talking and Gerard painting, and sometimes Frank messed with his guitar.

Gerard never brought up Frank’s panic attack, or what he confessed afterwards. And while Frank was really grateful, he also knew it didn’t matter if Gerard talked about it or not, he still knew about it. He was still there. It’s still so hard for Frank to expose himself like that; he couldn’t do it for his mom, not for some random therapist, and he didn’t _want_ to do it in front of Gerard; he hadn’t really had a choice in the matter. Even though it’s passed, Frank still feels like an open wound, fresh and easy to upset.

“Come take a look,”

Frank snaps his head up. Gerard is standing in front of him, gesturing at his finished painting. This is the one he started that second day with Frank. He almost feels like he’d been a part of this process, even though he knows that’s ridiculous. Gerard had asked him for his opinions throughout the time he made it, but they weren’t altering or important. Still, looking at the finished product, Frank is kind of taken away.

It’s actually really bloody, and when Frank looks closely, full of gore and torn limbs. It’s a background of black and hazy red, crisscrossing dangerously in some places like a poisonous sun. There’s a long figure, shadowed and faceless splattered in red, their head down, bowed; and around them are the dead. Bodies cut and slashed, leaking dark red, disconnected parts all mounding up into the huge pile the figure stands upon. The figure’s shoulders are slumped, and at first Frank thinks they are sad, or guilty, because they killed all those people. But then Frank rethinks, and no – they are relived. They survived, they’re still alive.

“Dude,” Frank breathes, still staring. “It’s fucking awesome.”

“Mhmm,” Gerard hums, hand under his chin as he critiques his own work. “I don’t know, I don’t think I like it.”

Frank shoves him. “Shut up, you know it’s good.” He says. “You know _you’re_ good.” 

Gerard just grins at him, because yeah, he totally fucking knows. At this point, Frank does not think Gerard is conceited. He does think Gerard is a little shit, though. “Don’t sell this one.” Frank says. “Or, I’ll buy it from you.”

Gerard shakes his head. “No one buys the horror ones. This was going to stay here anyways.”

Frank looks around. “If only I had wall hangings. Something to hang em’ up.”

“No, what you need is a TV.” Gerard goes to the kitchen, presumably to make coffee since he seems to be as much an addict as Frank. “Seriously dude, taking away everything you enjoy just makes it worse. You said you love horror movies. Doing things you enjoy help you, how are you supposed to watch them without a TV?”

Frank knew Gerard was right; it was just at the time it seemed like a really good idea. Like disconnecting himself from everything that made him Frank would help reform and reshape him into a new version of himself. But that wasn’t how it worked. He still needed those movies, and those comic books and his actual phone with all its songs on it. Those were the things that gave him comfort before, what had made him think they wouldn’t give him comfort now? While he found new appreciation in boredom, because it forced him to practice his guitar and to write, he also really missed the things he’d given up. He used to be able to get lost in music; he’d put in his headphones and just drift, and nothing else would exist except for what was pouring into his ears. For a while, the only way he was able to sleep was if music was playing, otherwise he’d be up till dawn, till the safety of sunlight was present. Maybe that was why he was having trouble sleeping now. Either way it didn’t matter. There was no way he’d be able to get his hands on a TV, his mother certainly would not drive all the way up here just to give him the things he had been purposefully leaving behind.

Frank sighs, “There are a lot of things I shouldn’t have done, or should have taken with me, but it’s kind of too late now.”

“Why?” Gerard asks, coming back with a full mug, the steam rising up into his face.

“I can’t get a TV in here, much less movies.” He snickers. “A simple CD player would be hard enough.”

“Well,” Gerard says, plopping down on the couch, careful to avoid spilling any of his drink. “I’m not as accepting to that sort of living. I’m bringing my TV.” And he took a sip from his mug, as if the finalized everything.

“You’re bringing your TV.” Frank repeated dumbly. He kind of hated this; every time he thought he would get used to Gerard, the guy would turn around and do something stupid and irrational, like this. It was making Frank’s head hurt; never had he met someone who made such brash decisions, and then followed through with them.

“Of course,” Gerard says. “And this isn’t just for you; I would not be able to live with the boredom.” Frank hadn’t thought he would either, but he found ways to work around it, found alternative things to do. He thought about saying this to Gerard, but he thought the other would only glare and go on some tangent about how taking away these things could problematically make a person worse, or something like that.

“And where will it go?” Frank asks instead.

“We’ll move the easel; behind the couch, against the far wall, or into the kitchen.” Gerard seems to have this all worked out, almost as if this isn’t some sudden idea. It makes Frank wary, but also kind of delighted that Gerard put this much thought into moving in with him. “And you need real food. You can’t survive on coffee and vegetables.”

“But I’m a vegetarian.”  

Gerard seems to skip a step, but then continues right on. “Well, there’s still good veggie food, and candy. You can eat candy right? If we’re going to have movies, and a TV then we need junk food.” And then he nods to himself, as if approving his own statement.

Frank grins. “I like Twizzlers.”

*

So then there is a TV where the easel used to be, and fridge is full of more than just plain old vegetables; there are things Gerard likes, and candy does come, as well as a whole box of movies. Gerard had sat them in front of Frank when he brought them, shoved them kind of, and said “Approve?” Frank had looked through them and nodded back eagerly – he approved. There were a lot of Frank’s favorites, and some he hadn’t seen but he thought looked good and wouldn’t mind watching.

It was sudden, yet also really subtle because one day Gerard left around eight thirty, and the next he was still around near midnight. Frank had tried to stay up for as long as possible, because he always liked to be there to say good bye when Gerard left. He thought it would be rude if he fell off while Gerard was still there, much less to head off to his room. But Gerard stayed for a _long_ time, and Frank started leaning weirdly on the couch, eyes slipping close, comfortable even in his haphazard position because he was just that tired, when Gerard said “You should go to bed.”

Frank blinked wearily at him. They were sitting at opposite ends of the couch, but he could make the other out perfectly in the light of the television screen. He can’t even remember what they’d been watching, something sci-fi, maybe; but he could either pay attention to what Gerard was saying to him, or focus on something that isn’t important. “Where will you go?” He didn’t really want Gerard to leave.

Gerard stared at him, his strangely owlish in the lack of lighting; wide and completely dark. “My room.” He says simply.

It almost wakes Frank up, the tingle that goes up his spine at Gerard calling it _his_ room. It made it sound like Gerard belonged here, here with Frank, all secluded in this vast forest. It made Frank feel – he didn’t even know. Good. Happy. Accepted.

“Oh,” Frank murmurs. “Okay. Good night.”

And that was that. Frank stumbled to his room, ignoring Gerard’s snickers, and left his door open. He tried to at least listen to when Gerard went to sleep, for when the humming of the TV blinked off, but he didn’t hear anything except his own heartbeat, the sound of the night outside the walls. He thought it would be weird to know Gerard was here when he was asleep, that his paranoia would get worse, but he felt settled, content. There was someone he was beginning to think he trusted, and while they were in the room that scared him to even think about, they were still there. Frank wasn’t alone anymore.


	12. Evolution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)

Ch. 12

Frank was beginning to realize that you didn’t need to ask questions to get to know someone. Really, all you needed was to be around them twenty-four seven and all the little things would start to pop up. Each day he was beginning to understand Gerard more and more. For instance, Gerard really was a night owl in every sense of the word. He slept more in the lights of day then he did under the cover of night, and if Frank even _tried_ to approach him before he had his first cup of coffee, Gerard would damn near murder him. Gerard sang in the shower, loudly, but Frank wasn’t annoyed by it because it wasn’t half bad; raw and full of something powerful, but not bad. Sometimes Frank would walk in on Gerard muttering to himself, not full out talking, but kind of just, under his breath, mumbling, but he never called him out on it because Frank would do the same thing. Gerard sketched a lot too, far more than he painted, and sometimes he would let Frank see, ask him what he thought, other times Frank had to be sneaky and take little peaks when he thought Gerard wasn’t paying attention. But as Frank was coming to realize, besides the times when Gerard would zone out into his head, the guy noticed everything. And he could talk for _days_.  

That’s another thing Frank realized. He didn’t have enough time. Not here, not with Gerard. Gerard who could talk for hours but never get boring, who could keep Frank’s attention even though Frank was pretty sure he had ADHD or something and it was near impossible to keep him focused half the time. It was like, they could be talking about fucking hair dye, something unimportant, and Gerard would find a way to connect it to a bigger picture, would go on and on until he got to a point, and Frank didn’t mind the rambling, because all of it always amounted to something so incredible, Frank found it hard to breathe. There would never be enough time to be with Gerard, to know him; he was as bright as the moon on a starless night, but ever-changing. Frank would never be able to catch up.

Gerard was with him all the time now, sleeping right across the hall, and it just made Frank’s – _infatuation_ – worse. He got to see who Gerard was; the first morning Gerard had woken up in the cabin he was actually up relatively early, that is to say he was up when Frank got up, and they’d made breakfast together. Gerard had made a point to bring pancake mix, because apparently pancakes were the holy grail of breakfast foods, and when Frank had walked out of his room, he was greeted to the smell of coffee and the adorable sight of Gerard mixing ingredients into a large bowl, some of the batter speckled on his black sweat pants.

“I _wanted_ to bring bacon.” Gerard had said when he noticed Frank standing shocked in the living room. Gerard mockingly glared at him, and Frank rolled his eyes. He could complain all he wanted to, Frank knew he didn’t mind.

Their lives together resumed the way they had been before. Except now the day didn’t end at eight o’clock, and Frank found it easier to sleep at night. Even when Gerard stayed up till late into the early morning, puttering around the small cabin, making coffee, muttering to himself, Frank slept easy, was comforted by Gerard’s noises. It was much like the way he liked having music playing while he slept. Gerard had turned into his music, and was turning out to be his favorite sound.

It was getting increasingly harder to disconnect the thoughts of liking Gerard, and loving Gerard. Because those were two completely different things. He could like Gerard all he wanted, he could admire him and rely on him and find comfort in his friendship. What Frank could not do was love Gerard. If not love then – _feel_ for him. He had to stop staring at his lips when he talked, had to stop thinking about what they’d feel like against his. He had to stop feeling that tingle of warmth when they sat on the couch together and their sides touched, from shoulder to knee. Even if Gerard did reciprocate – which was highly unlikely because why would he – Frank’s time here was not eternal. At some point the summer was going to end and Frank would go back to school and Gerard would – he would keep painting, keep being amazing, and Frank would just have to live with that.

But it was so hard. So _fucking_ hard, when Gerard always _looked_ at him. He looked at Frank like he cared, like Frank mattered to him. And maybe Frank did, on some level, but not the way – not in the same way. Gerard couldn’t. There wasn’t anything to like about Frank; he was a weird fucking kid, a weed in a sea of roses. But sometimes Gerard he did stupid things, stupid fucking things that made Frank’s brain think maybe he meant something else. Like when Gerard cups the side of Frank’s face, his cheek resting in Gerard’s palm, and just smiles at him and stares, wide eyed like Frank was something to marvel at. Or when it’s been a particularly hard day, with Frank being absent for most of it, dazed and lost in his own head, and right before he heads off to sleep Gerard will go to him and wrap Frank up in his arms, all strong and unyielding, not letting Frank go. The first few times Gerard did it, Frank was frozen stiff, afraid and unsure of what was going on, why Gerard was doing this. After he realized that Gerard was just giving him comfort, was expressing his concern, Frank learned to relax into it, held back just as tight and relished in the way Gerard felt; it’d been so long since he’d been _touched_ , it suddenly turned Frank into this hungry animal. He never wanted to let go.   

The day started normal enough. Frank woke up an hour or so before Gerard, and waited for him so they could eat breakfast together. Gerard has never said anything explicitly, but Frank can tell by the way he slumps kind of disappointed like when he walks into the living room to see Frank’s empty cereal bowl. So Frank waits, and then he hears Gerard stumbling from down the hall, can hear the friction of his nails against his head as he scratches at knots in his hair, and Frank’s heart stammers.

“Morning,” Gerard yawns.

“Hey,” Frank should have started the coffee pot so that it was ready when Gerard woke up. He follows Gerard into the kitchen, pulls out bowls while Gerard starts up the machine, and keeps quiet, waits for Gerard to pull himself together and wake up. The quiet that settles around them is comfortable, familiar. Frank doesn’t feel the need to fill it with anything, is content to listen to the late morning stream in from outside, to the strain of the coffee pot, and the soothing hum of Gerard’s breathing.

Frank and Gerard both really like Lucky Charms, so it’s the only cereal they own. He pulls it down from the shelf, pours a good amount into each bowl and reaches across Gerard to the fridge to get the milk. They move back to the couch, flicking on the TV, and eating their breakfast together as they continue to watch whatever movie they’d had on last night.

Frank is about to ask what Gerard wanted to do today, when the other says, “I’m going to go visit my brother today, get some things.” He looks at Frank. “Do you want to come?”

Frank can’t read the expression on Gerard’s face, doesn’t give himself enough time to before he’s shutting his eyes tight, blinking away the question, turning away from Gerard. He can’t. He can’t _leave_ the cabin. He can’t right? He hasn’t in, fuck, he doesn’t even know how long, it would be – And his brother? Frank didn’t even know he had a brother, couldn’t imagine leaving him. Frank thought Gerard understood. He’d locked himself away in this cabin for a reason, he wasn’t allowed to leave. So why was Gerard asking him to? The idea of leaving this cabin, this place that has been his safe haven and hell all at once torments him. But the idea of Gerard leaving, of him never coming back. That’s what’s causing Frank to over think; it’s what won’t allow him to look Gerard in the eye. If Frank doesn’t go with him, will he come back at all?

Frank tells himself he needs to calm down, or he’ll put himself into another panic attack. He’s over-reacting, like he always does. Still, he puts his cereal bowl down on the coffee table, hardly touched and soggy.

“No,” He says. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not allowed.”

Gerard looks at him, and Frank can’t decide if it’s pity or something else entirely painting his face. He really hopes it’s not pity. “Who isn’t allowing you, Frank? Who’s in control here?”

The answer is simple. It’s Frank. His mother has no power over him here, not really. Nobody has any control over him here except for himself. He just can’t leave. He can’t. He doesn’t know what will happen, doesn’t know where he’ll be going. Any sense of control he’s gained from being out here on his own will vanish; he’ll be vulnerable and defenseless. He understands it’ll just be for the day, probably not even that long, and Gerard will be there with him, but it doesn’t change the fact that Frank is _scared_. He’s been here so long, has gotten so used to the absence of anyone else, of social standards and how he is supposed to act, of judgment and cruelty – he doesn’t want to go back.

Frank doesn’t say anything.

Gerard kind of sighs, says, “I won’t be gone long. Promise. Anything you want me to pick up?”

Frank shakes his head. He’s shaking.

“Alright,” Gerard says, and Frank doesn’t understand his tone of voice. He’s afraid of the meaning.

An hour later, Gerard is gone.


	13. Wide Open

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I deleted this chapter and re-did it because the last time I wrote it I rushed and I wasn't happy with it. Basically the same thing, just better written (in my opinion)

Ch. 13

_Gerard is gone._

The single sentence looks strange in Frank’s notebook, alone on its page. He hadn’t been writing much since Gerard became a permanent fixture here, and there wasn’t really any other reference to him elsewhere in the journal. Frank has never written his name. It’s strange to think how important this can be, when in previous entries Frank doesn’t even mention Gerard. There’s a lot boiling beneath his hand, ready to flow out through the pen. He can’t write any of it; that’s what Frank’s problem is, after all, he can’t face his problems – that’s why he’s here in the fucking first place, but – Gerard is gone. And Frank doesn’t know what bothers him more, the fact that Gerard, the only other person he trusts besides his mother, has left and Frank isn’t sure whether he can rely on his promise to return, or that now that he is gone, Frank is really, truly alone – and he doesn’t like it.

He’d gotten so used to having to share breathing space, to the sounds of someone else puttering around. It’s so quiet. Even with the forest thrashing in the wind, knocking against the windows; and the hum of the new TV, all the additives Gerard has brought, it’s still so – empty. If Frank closes his eyes, he can convince himself that Gerard had never been here; the acrid smell of his paints will fade into the smoke of the wood, and Frank will dissolve into the blackness – and it is so frightening to think about. If so much as imagines himself falling into the depths of his own mind, then he will, no doubt about it and he can’t. Not now. He was just starting to forget, Gerard was allowing him to forget. He would ask stupid, irrelevant questions, and any dark thoughts Frank had would scare away and he’d put all his focus on Gerard. It was such an easy distraction, too easy really, it was a wonder it hadn’t ended sooner.

And now. Now Frank had to face the entire reason he came here in the first place. Well, no. He didn’t have to; Frank never had to do anything – except for when he did, if he wanted to survive. He’s spent all his life – practically – running from this, running from memories that make him sick, and dodging any attempt at fixing it. He couldn’t keep looking at life through fogged up glasses; he couldn’t keep these things buried and tucked away, because they weren’t dead – these were wounds he’d had for years and they just kept bleeding, tearing a little more each day the longer he tried to ignore them. He felt bad, a little, because of how long it took for him to realize he had to deal with this, for how long it took him to get the guts to deal with this. It wasn’t when he was starving himself, it wasn’t when the kids at school cut him up even more and he didn’t even fight back because he didn’t care, it wasn’t even when he could hear his mom crying into the phone, crying about him, because she knew he’d given up and she didn’t know what to do. No, none of those things had made him feel the need to fix himself. It was Gerard. And it was fucked up, because it wasn’t just Gerard, but the idea that Gerard was leaving him and if he didn’t do this now, Gerard would never come back. He hardly even knew Gerard. He shouldn’t care this much. But he did, he really, really did so – he lay back against the couch and closed his eyes. He told himself Gerard didn’t exist, told himself he was alone and, finally, Frank opened his eyes.

*

Everything doesn’t come pouring in all at once the way he was expecting it to, the way he was afraid it would.

Instead, they come in pieces; each memory is glass shard, sharp around the edges and meeting at the end to form a dangerous tip. Before, he would run away, hide and let the hazardous thoughts lay where they may – but not now. He may come away bloodied and scarred afterwards, but he was to sort through them. So he does.

They don’t come in order. He’ll think about the time he was seven and his father locked him in the closet in the entry hall; and then something in that memory will spark the ignition of the time he was ten and he was beat until he passed out. A lot of the scattered images look the same; blood and angry eyes and the sound of his father’s voice, but sometimes there’s the back of his mom’s head, there’s her shouting and crying, and those aren’t as hard to bear because at least then he was protected. But those stop around the time he turns eight; by then he’s too old, or his dad gets too impatient and he stops caring about what mom thinks, and he just throws he around too.

Frank knows his eyes are closed, physically. If Gerard were to walk in right now, he may think Frank is fast asleep. But his eyes have never been more open; he’s never been more awake. He’s always looked at these things, these events, with a side eye, out of the corner so as to not look head on. Actually seeing them like this, though, allows Frank to see it from the real perspective, the one that counts. When he was seven, and he thought it was his fault that he wasn’t allowed to eat, it made sense that it was his fault, because who’s fault would it be? Now he can see. Now he understands. It was never his fault – he was fucking kid. It wasn’t his mom’s fault, either. She tried, she really did and she has her own scars to show.

It wasn’t God’s fault either. Frank remembers going to church. His family has always gone to church; they went before his dad, during his dad, and after. His mother has clung to her faith throughout it all, and despite their plights she still believed God had saved them, eventually, that the entirety of it had been in His plan. Frank thought that too, once. He can remember being younger and going to church with his father’s hand heavy on his neck like a leash, and not caring, for once, because here he was connected with God. Here he could pray, and ask what he’d done wrong, and try to correct it all. He can remember being so hopeful each Sunday, thinking, after today things will be different, that they’ll change. And then they never did, and Frank realized God was bullshit.

And while he didn’t think about God in the same negative light, he still didn’t believe, not really. There was no higher power, there was just this – life and horrible people and bad outcomes and maybe, possibly second chances. He wouldn’t be joining his mother at church anytime soon, but he wouldn’t be so fast to scoff and judge her for her faith either. He’d come to an understanding.

Frank didn’t want a clutch. He didn’t want to have to rely on anything to keep himself alive. So he wasn’t going to bring religion into his life, not yet, not anytime soon.

With every piece that was put into place, every crooked thing in his head righted, Frank felt lighter somehow. Like he’d just took a drag from a helium tank. He wanted to laugh; he wanted Gerard to hurry up and get home so he could kiss him and tell him everything he’d never been able to say before. Frank felt a little bitter in realizing that this is what he could have been feeling like all this fucking time – he’d just been too – he doesn’t even know – scared? Apprehensive? He doesn’t know; he just hadn’t cared before. He hadn’t cared enough to try and do anything about his unhappiness. But now he’s tasted it, freedom, happiness, and he doesn’t want to go back. God, how anyone, how Gerard even found the ability to talk to him before – he doesn’t know.

And Frank isn’t kidding himself. He isn’t fixed. He hasn’t gone into the master bedroom at all, and the idea of it still makes him shake, but he’s so close. He’s been in this pitch black tunnel for the better portion of his life, walking aimlessly, and the end is just now nearing, an end he hadn’t even known existed. It kind of hurts, to be rid of this weight he’s been caring for so long, but in the kind that is just plain relief. He’s so fucking happy; he hadn’t understood what the word meant until now.

He still understands fear, though, of course. And he’s terrified. Because there are a lot of steps left to take, and he’s positive he needs Gerard for a lot of them. Now it’s just up to see if Gerard will take him.        

 


	14. Dropped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohmygosh I know how long it's been I am sorry. Writers block. Holidays are hard. I love you.

Ch. 14

Frank doesn’t know how long it takes for the front door to finally open again.

It’s late, he thinks. The edges of his vision are fuzzy, blurred like there’s fog and he’s wearing glasses, but he can almost make out the setting sun through one of the windows. He can’t feel the couch beneath him; he feels both incredibly light, like there’s nothing to him at all, no skin or anything, but also heavy with something like sludge. When the door does open, it moves in slow motion.

Gerard walks in; he’s got in his arms two boxes stacked on top of one another. They must be pretty heavy, heavier than even his paint cans, because he is concentrating solely on them, not even taking in or noticing Frank’s presence. Frank doesn’t say anything – really, he probably couldn’t even if he wanted to, but that’s whatever – he doesn’t move either – another thing he doesn’t think he can do right now – and just watches. He can’t see that well from his position on the couch, but it’s enough. Gerard is beautiful. He really is. And it isn’t just – Frank once read someone that’s really easy to fall in love at first sight. Because you aren’t really falling in love with them, not exactly, you’re falling in love with what you see. To _love_ someone you have to _know_ them, and when Frank looks at Gerard, he doesn’t just see his eyes, eyes that can be so intense Frank could melt; or his mouth, which he talks out of the side of and Frank loves watching; he doesn’t just see his hands which are a work of art all on their own and distract Frank to no end. He also sees Gerard’s heart, a heart he’s sure no one else could ever have, or even hope to have; he sees his brain, which is so fucking crazy and imaginative and _beautiful_. 

Frank could get lost in Gerard, and perhaps he already is, but he doesn’t mind. Not one bit.

Gerard has set the two boxes down in the back near the rest of his supplies. He’s walking back over to close the front door, rubbing his hands on his thighs to rid them of debris, when he notices Frank. He stares for a moment, taking in the sight; Frank knows how he looks, which is to say he looks like he’s been lying on the couch all day and hasn’t got up once. Which he hasn’t.

“Frank?” Gerard sounds – weird. Or maybe it’s Frank – his head is still feeling thick and full of something foul. Still, even Gerard’s facial expression is concerning. “Are you alright?”

Frank opens his mouth to respond, to say ‘yeah, of course’ because he thinks he is. He’s finally faced his memories, realized what’s he been feeling and what he has to do about it, but his tongue doesn’t corporate – doesn’t seem to be a part of his body anymore. His head feels heavy, sinking.

“Have you been there since I left?”

Has he? He knows he hasn’t, but that doesn’t make any sense. He remembers – he remembers going to the closet, squeezing himself inside. He got up to do that, right? And then going into the kitchen, dropping something – no. Those were memories. That’s where he’s been all day, inside his head.

Gerard must come to some similar conclusion. “I’m gonna get you some water and – something.” He sounds distraught, a little panicked. Frank did that. His stomach starts to hurt as guilt tears at him. He’d wanted to see Gerard smile, wanted to see Gerard smile at _him_ , and instead he made him frown. Frank makes everyone unhappy.    

He doesn’t get up when Gerard returns with a glass of water a plate with what looked like a PB&J on it. He sets the contents on the coffee table, then rests on the edge of the couch, one hand near Frank’s ear so he lean over him. Frank wishes he would topple over him, to feel more of his warmth, but knows he doesn’t deserve it.

“What did you do all day Frank?” Frank shrugs. Gerard sighs; gets the glass and has Frank drink from it. After Frank drains nearly half of it, Gerard repeats the question.

Frank struggles for a moment. The water helped a lot, but now he can feel it swishing around in his empty stomach. And he can feel Gerard staring at him, demanding an answer, and it may be a concerned stare, it may be warm and sparkling like Gerard’s eyes always are, but he’s still waiting for something and Frank can’t keep eye contact. Finally, with his eyes closed, he says, “Thinking.”

“You’ve been thinking all day?”

He nods. “I don’t – I try to avoid it. But you were gone, and I nothing else to do, and I’m _supposed_ to –“

“You’ve been thinking about – about all the _bad things_?” Gerard sounds – Frank’s brain is moving too slowly, he can’t decipher that tone. But it isn’t good. Gerard is upset. At Frank.

But then Frank opens his eyes. Gerard is looking at him in a way that makes Frank think he wishes Frank weren’t lying down. It’s the same look Gerard gives him when Frank refuses to go to bed because he’s afraid of what will meet him when he does, so Gerard hugs him tight and hums. He’s looking at Frank like he cares about him. Gerard has given him this look multiple times, but this is the only time, the first time Frank really, truly believes it.

He tries to sit up, but his head hangs and he’d rather lie back down. Gerard doesn’t let him. He pulls Frank over, nudges up on the couch so that they end up in a curled position; Frank nestled against Gerard’s side, his head on his chest.

“Don’t do that again.” Gerard whispers, and Frank relishes in the way he can hear the words from the inside through Gerard’s chest. Gerard has a beautiful heartbeat.

Frank nods, and Gerard moves the arm that’s curled around him lower, so that his hand rests in the hollow of Frank’s back. It’s intimate, somehow, making Frank shiver, and Frank thought he’d be more intimidated and uncomfortable by this but he isn’t.

“At least,” Gerard amends. “Not alone. Not without me?”

Again Frank nods; he doesn’t really know what he’s agreeing to, but he knows he doesn’t want to feel like this ever again and Gerard doesn’t want him to either and that’s all that matters. “Can I –“ He stops himself, unsure and cotton-headed. But Gerard urges him on, his other hand curling around Frank’s arm. “Can I come with you next time you leave? Please?”

“Yes.” Gerard replies immediately. “Yeah, of course. Mikey really wants to meet you.”  

Some part of Frank’s brain can remember and connect that Mikey is his brother, but he’s going under – fast.

He shivers, unaware of the cold up until now. Although he doesn’t think it ever had been cold.

“Go to sleep.”

Frank shakes his head. He can’t. He’s opened the floodgate, now nothing will stop the memories or the nightmares. He’d rather be here, comfortable and safe in Gerard’s arms.

“I won’t leave.” His voice is strong with its promise; his grip around Frank tightens. He rubs Frank’s arms, and Frank loses himself in the soothing rhythm.

He goes to sleep.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://howllx.tumblr.com/
> 
> i have a tumblr if you want to talk to me ever :)


	15. Frank Realizes Something

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i re-wrote this as well. also was listening to a really sweet station on pandora so that inspired all of this.

Ch. 15

When Frank was younger, on the really bad nights when he couldn’t sleep for any various reason (he was in too much pain or the shadows of his room would take on evil shapes, preventing him from sleeping) he would crawl into his mom’s room. His parents slept in separate rooms, and before he hadn’t known why and didn’t question it, now of course he knew and he thinks his mom did it on purpose. Had she decided to stay in the same room as his father, Frank wouldn’t have been able to sneak into her room, crawling on the carpet because his father was right next door and he didn’t want to startle mom. He wouldn’t have been able to kneel up to where her head rested on the pillows, and most of the time she’d already be awake – probably she would have woke up the second her door opened, but Frank had always thought he was sneakier than that – and he wouldn’t have been able to squeeze into the bed with her.

He wonders now if she had minded. At first, he remembers she’d always ask “what’s the matter” and he’d tell her, and she’d rub his hair back from his head and tell him a story and send him back to his own room. But he kept coming back, not every night, but definitely on the nights when his father had been particularly horrible, so she must have realized the only real solution was to let Frank into bed with her. After that, she never asked questions; he couldn’t see her face in the dark, but she’d pull the covers back and that would be that.

Frank has never tested the theory before, because he’s never had the chance to, but he thinks he sleeps better with someone nearby. Those nights with his mother – which had ended as soon as he’d turned seven; his mother told him he was getting too old, but he thinks his father found out – he’d slept all through the night without a single nightmare. Frank can remember waking up in the same position he’d gone to sleep in, and even his mother would say he’d been out like a light. Like the dead.

When Gerard had first begun staying here, the effect had been immediate. Frank was still a night owl, that was in his blood, but just knowing there was another person he trusted in the room across the hall allowed him to sleep easier. Last night, after Frank had dropped off the edge and into the oblivion, Gerard must have fallen asleep too. When Frank wakes up, they’re in practically the same position, if a little tilted and slumped. Frank was basically sprawled on top of him, and he would’ve felt guilty and weird if it weren’t for Gerard’s arms, which were wrapped around him tightly.

Frank was awake, and Gerard was very much not, and Frank felt – uncomfortable.

Well, no. He was very comfortable; Gerard was a fucking furnace and soft and really Frank had never slept better. Perhaps the better word was _afraid_. Frank had never been through this before – he’s never _felt_ this way before and he didn’t even know what to call _it_. There were only two words he could fathom at this point, and those were love, and friendship. But neither of them really fit.

The only love Frank has ever known is the love of a mother. While her love had felt restrained sometimes, and almost required, he knew she had to love him because he came from her. They were family, and that’s how it worked – he understood that. It was the love that you felt for strangers, the kind that grew out of nothing, that he didn’t understand. No one besides his mother had ever shown his any kind of emotion that could be classified as love. His dad’s parents were dead, and his mom’s didn’t want anything to do with them, so he didn’t have relatives to dot on him. His mom would consider the church their family, but Frank doesn’t, and they don’t care about him anyway.

And that’s how you know there’s really something wrong with you, Frank thinks, because not even the people of their church would be kind to him. They treated him the same way the kids at school did – with ignorance like he didn’t exist. Some of the nicer kids would say hello sometimes, and help him if he quietly asked for it in class (he sucked ass in chemistry and algebra and was always asking for assistance), but they would never talk to him on their own. They didn’t want to – they knew not to. Since freshman year, Frank had been labeled the weird kid, and after sophomore year, that reputation had just gotten worse. Even the nicest kids cared too much about their own social standing to even consider being friends with him. But they were kids his own age and he didn’t expect them to rise above the status quo. The adults at his church however – they were fucking adults. And yet when he went to church, it was like he was in fucking school. Their eyes glazed past him like he wasn’t there, and afterwards, when his mother would stick around to chat with everyone, if anyone were to talk to him – which was rare – they would not address him – they’d look to his mom.

It was hard to believe that he was more than what happened to him when everyone treated him like that’s all they could see. Frank wondered what he looked like to them; he wondered if it ever even crossed their minds that he’s an actual fucking person, not some shadow or – or whatever the fuck they wanted to tell themselves so they could justify ignoring him.

Sometimes, Frank thought his mother loved him only because no one else did. But that was right after the whole father fiasco, when they were still just a frightened mother and son. Now that they’ve evolved into Frank-and-Linda, he understands that she loves him, as Frank her son and as Frank the person.

When Frank first met Gerard, he didn’t know what was going to happen. Certainly not this.

Frank has never met anyone he’s cared enough about to want more than what he is given. He doesn’t care if the people at his school don’t know his name; he doesn’t care if the “adults” at his mom’s church still think of him as the boy who was destroyed by his father. He couldn’t care less what they think of him. But with Gerard it’s different.

From the very beginning Gerard never looked at him the way they did. Frank would like to think that’s just because that’s who he is, that he doesn’t judge people like that, but everyone’s human, and Frank knows it’s because Gerard hadn’t known who he was. He hadn’t known anything about Frank. All he’d known was what Frank put on display, which even then hadn’t been too inviting. And still, Gerard had seen something. He must’ve because he stuck around; he treated Frank like a person.

No one had ever done that before.

Before Gerard, Frank was content to know that if he were ever upset, no one would care and no one would ask why. No one would offer to listen. But if Gerard sees Frank is upset, he asks questions, he lets Frank talk.

He remembers the first time it happened. He can’t even remember why he’d been so upset, but he had been, and Gerard noticed. He stopped sketching, turned to Frank and just said, “Do you wanna talk about it?”

And Frank cringes to remember, but he’d started crying. Like, worse than when he’d had the panic attack in the kitchen. This was full on sobbing because no one, _no one_ , ever asked him that. No one ever cared. But Gerard did.

Frank didn’t know what this feeling was that Gerard had given him. He supposed it could be love; Gerard made him feel cared about and safe and alive, but love didn’t seem strong enough. Friendship was what they had, but it wasn’t what Frank felt. And he was so afraid to find out, because what if Gerard didn’t feel the same way? Frank could handle the rejection of the people in his town; he didn’t give a fuck about them. Gerard was important, though, he _mattered_ , and Frank desperately wanted to know what he felt.

Frank shifts slightly so he can peer up at him. Gerard is still deep asleep, his face slack with it and his mouth open just slightly. Frank really likes his mouth; the soft look to it and the delicate shape; how his lips were the perfect flower petal pink, making Frank want to taste. He had an acute want to see what it was like to be kissed by those lips, by Gerard. Frank had never kissed anyone before, and he doesn’t know why he has such a severe need for it, but now that he’s though about it, the idea won’t go away. Neither does the idea of tracing along the contours of Gerard’s face; now, when he’s asleep when the features are softer and relaxed, and when they’re kissing, when they’re pressed even closer. Maybe then he could run his hands over the rest of Gerard’s body; outline every beautiful part of him. Frank thinks he’d start with his hands; up his arms and around his shoulders. He’s always wanted to dig his fingers deep into Gerard’s hair; he’d brought some weird shampoo and conditioner with him, and even though he’ll go through spouts of not showering (usually only when he has an idea for a sketch) his hair always looks so soft and like the perfect place for Frank to burrow into; especially where the looser strands curl at the base of his neck.

He’d been so consumed at the idea of actually being able to feel and embrace him, that Frank hadn’t realized Gerard had woken up and was staring straight back at him. Something coiled in Frank’s stomach, hot and quickening. Gerard was still waking up, he probably didn’t understand. But he would – Frank would make him.

He smiled and laid back down.  

   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter translated almost exactly from my actual life so this was like so easy to write bc it was like writing a diary entry but not i dont know but im proud of it


	16. That's an Ugly Drawing

Ch. 16  
“Can I show you something?”

Frank jumps, half turns with the shirt he’d been about to put on clutched between his fingers. Gerard stands in the doorway of his room, dark eyebrows raised. Frank kind of – stalls. He understands there had been a question asked, a simple question, really, but his shirt is still off and even if Gerard’s facial expression is blank, his eyes are roaming. Frank thinks he’s trying to be subtle, but, after their shared nap, he kind of wished Gerard would do more. 

“Well?”

Frank knows he’s red in the face, and it’s probably spreading down to his chest, but he nods. “Yeah,” He pulls the t-shirt on. “What is it?”

That was the permission Gerard needed, apparently. He heads straight for Frank’s bed, plopping down on the end, unconcerned with the fact that it isn’t made and has never been. Well, save the first time he’d entered, the first time the two of them had met. Way back when Frank’s room had just been storage for Gerard’s paintings. To see how far they’d come – it makes Frank smile ruefully; Gerard notices, and even though Frank knows he doesn’t understand why, Gerard smiles too. Frank wonders if that means something; smiling just because the other person is – he thinks it does. Hopes so. 

“Come and sit,” Gerard pats the space beside him. It’s a decent sized bed, but it’s old and doesn’t have good stability. When Frank sits, the center slouches and he falls into Gerard’s side. Frank doesn’t try to move, and Gerard doesn’t make him. “So, I want to show you something.”

Frank laughs. “You’ve made that clear.” He glances up, but Gerard isn’t looking at him. His eyes are focused on the black book in-between his fingers, flicking his thumb up and down the pages, filling the room with that special noise all bounds of paper make when you flip their pages together. The fact that he isn’t talking, is just staring, is a little jarring to Frank. For someone who loves to talk about anything and everything, Gerard is being awfully quiet. But it isn’t the kind of quiet Frank sometime gets like. When Frank is abnormally quiet, it’s the loud kind. He isn’t talking, but his mind is and just by looking at him you can tell – least, that’s what Gerard says. Frank’s mom would probably agree. But right now, Gerard’s quiet – it’s focused. His thoughts are clear, he’s just … waiting. 

“What is it?”

Without a word, Gerard opens the book. Frank watches; each page that is turned is full with black and white and grey. Gerard moves too fast for Frank to really see what each drawing is, but the little glimpses he receives are beautiful, things he’d never imagined. He wants to ask Gerard to slow down, but there’s a specific picture he wants Frank to see, he knows, so he doesn’t ask. 

Gerard stops on a sketch that fills the entire page. It’s printed on the horizontal, so he adjusts the book, moves his hands away, and lets it lie there on his lap. Frank doesn’t try to take it into his hands; he leans closer to Gerard and peers his head down. It takes him a couple of seconds to realize what he’s looking at.   
Something – strange goes through him when he recognizes his own face. A zing of electric, a sharp something like heat that floods his entire body, making his head feel full and like at any moment it’ll fly off at the same time. 

He stares and stares; the picture is incredible. He knew Gerard was good, but most of all the work he’s seen has been abstract or more of a comic style. This is a realistic portrait – as realistic as an actual photo. Except. Except his eyes are empty. His mouth is flat. The Frank on the page is staring at the viewer, but also not. He’s staring past them, lost looking and dead. Is this how Gerard sees him? The idea makes him cringe, pulls away any of that warm feeling he’d gotten at first. He doesn’t – he’s been getting better. He thought he was. Frank doesn’t really look in the mirror, he kind of can’t yet, but he thought he looked better than this. Looking at this drawing, Frank is reminded of the old him, the one that made his mother weep and the adults at church look away in pity. 

Gerard must be able to see it on his face. “Frank,” 

“Is that what I look like?” He tears his eyes away, tries to meet Gerard’s, but he can’t. How can Gerard even stand to look at him? He wants to go wash his face; maybe if he scrubbed hard enough, that emptiness will go away. 

Gerard shakes his head. “No,” He says. “No, not at all.”

At this, Frank has to look at him. Gerard’s eyes are shining – with what, Frank can’t tell. “Then why –“ 

“I wanted to draw you,” Gerard says. “I do that, with people – friends and family and strangers. I wanted to make you look as beautiful as you do in person, but I couldn’t.” Frank is a little shocked – Gerard has never complimented him like that. Not in a way that could be interpreted as something else. But with the way Gerard is looking at him, the sparkle in his eyes glimmering and sparking, Frank understands that right now that is not the point. “Frank, we’re always talking, but what are we actually saying?”

There’s something Gerard needs Frank to understand. He can tell. But it’s coming slowly for Frank, and it’s frustrating him. He’s beginning to realize what he feels for Gerard, and he thinks the realization is happening for Gerard too, but there are obvious steps that need to be taken before anything can happen. Frank thinks this one of those steps, but Gerard is going about it in a way Frank doesn’t understand. 

“You’ve told me something a lot of people have a hard time talking about, to people far closer than we are,” Here, Frank knows Gerard is talking about Frank’s dad and what happened. “But, that’s not who you are. This drawing is not who you are.” He tosses the sketch book onto the bed, grabs one of Frank’s hands in the same motion. “Who are you? I would like – we should start talking about the real stuff.”

Frank licks his lips without thinking, wondering in his head how Gerard will feel about him if they do this. He understands, he gets it. They don’t know each other at all. He doesn’t even know how old Gerard is. And while he wants to know, there’s something so comforting about this universe they’ve created, here in this cabin. If they just keep pretending, if they keep ignoring, they could be whoever they wanted. 

But that picture. That stupid fucking drawing. It was beautiful but it was false. It wasn’t him. And even though it’s stupid, the idea that Gerard was unable to properly depict him – it makes him sad. He’d thought him and Gerard were getting somewhere – or something, maybe.

“We could – we could do like a twenty questions thing. Except, we don’t have to stop at twenty.” 

Gerard’s smile is like – it’s like sunshine. Paired with the look in his eyes, looking at Frank, warming his face, making him feel like he’s just won an award, makes his skin tingle – it’s indescribable. 

Frank tells himself he’s only doing this so that he can get a better portrait done.


	17. A Walk in the Woods

Ch. 17   
Frank had hated school, and it wasn’t just because the kids around him – most of the times the teachers aided in his torment. It was very easy to hate every one of them – the teachers and kids combined – without thought, but Frank had this problem of over analyzing things. Because he was so quiet, what else was he to do then sit and watch and discover. He’d managed to come to a sort of understanding, and split the teachers up into individual groups.

There were the ones that obviously hated their job and didn’t give a fuck about the kids they were looking after. All they cared about were positive test scores so they could look good and not get fired. Once, his math teacher went out of his way to explain that it didn’t matter if he didn’t do a good day-to-day job, because teachers were paid yearly. As long as his students made it through the end of the year tests, he’d still be in a job. Frank figured he was explaining why he just had the class watch YouTube videos during class instead of actually teaching. 

Then there were the ones that saw teaching as a career, not a job. His history teacher had been like that. He understood that there was more to teaching than making students memorize information for a standardized test. His lessons were more like hour long conversations; he’d sit on one of the empty desks, and together he and his classmates would discuss whatever the topic of the day was. Somehow, the conversations, the classes, would all relate, without the kids even realizing it. This teacher had one of the highest passing rates in the school. 

Unfortunately, no matter what kind of teacher they were, they all did these stupid exercises. Frank wonders if there’s like a rule that goes around the staff; on the first day of school, this is what has to be done. And Frank knows, every student in the world is familiar with them; those stupid introduce yourself worksheets and, pick-a-random-partner-and-share-something-about-yourself. 

Frank absolutely hated it. He knew the moment it would happen too; the teacher would start out by saying something along the lines of, “so, to allow us all to get to know each other”or, “I would like you all to partner up.” His stomach would tighten so much that he thought he would puke; he was long past trying to meet eyes with a friendly face, hoping one of them would take pity on him. The best he could do was hope the teacher would assign partners, or group together all the odd ends. 

For some reason, the work sheets were the hardest. They would always ask the same two questions. How would you describe yourself? How would a friend describe yourself? Most of the time, he would leave them blank. 

Sometimes, when Frank was feeling really out of it, he’d compare himself to something that often changes to fit its surroundings. Like a chameleon. His main goal in life, after his father, had been to dissolve entirely. Wherever he was, whoever he was around, he would make sure he wasn’t noticed, would try to blend with the background. He stopped expressing himself, stopped indulging in all the things he loved. After he a while, he forgot who he was. And it’s not like he had friends to remind him. 

Even now, after remembering how to play his guitar, re-reading the books he used to love – even now it’s hard. Going into this, he feels like he’s being handed one of those fucking worksheets. 

The next morning, he downs three cups of coffee in record time, forgoing sugar or cream. After those, he slows down and starts sipping instead chugging. It’s not like he thought coffee would calm his nerves, really, it’s probably doing the exact opposite, but – the flavor is comforting. The warmth that seeps from the mug into the palms of his hands, it kind of burns, but not. It’s like, right on the edge of being painful, but just enough that Frank could feel it, not enough to actually harm.

Gerard is in the shower. Frank can hear him singing from where he’s leaning against the fridge. Frank’s going to ask about that – the singing. Sometimes the tunes he guts out are reminiscent of the strums Frank makes with his guitar, and Frank doesn’t think that’s a coincidence. 

He had planned on making a list. Of questions. Because, like, this was a two person thing; it’ll be back and forth. This wasn’t Gerard interrogating him; this was the two of them discovering who they were. He couldn’t tell if he was actually excited or not – the coffee was making his skin feel like it was humming, but he was unsure whether it was a good thing or not.

Anyway, he didn’t make a list. There are a couple of questions that he’s keeping in the back of his mind that he really wants to ask, but besides those few, he’s willing to let them come to mind as they talk. He thinks it’ll be better that way. Random and all over the place. They’ll probably discover more that way. 

When Gerard comes out, his hair is slick and dripping, single black strands tossed every which way. The smell of his weird shampoo is even stronger now, almost masking over the waves of coffee emitting from the cup under Frank’s nose. 

“We should go for a walk,” 

He doesn’t know what makes him say it. The idea just came to him and he kind of agreed with it. The last time Frank had been outside the cabin had been before Gerard was staying here; he wonders how the forest has changed, if it has at all. And he thinks it’ll be easier – he’d been able to think clearer out there after all, maybe it’ll be the same with talking. 

Gerard smiles. 

~ 

“I just want to get it out of the way,” He says kind of quietly. They’ve been walking for a couple of minutes; if Frank looked back, he could just make out the shadow of their cabin, but it’s easy to get deep into woods this free. “Your – scars, they’re from your dad, right?”

Frank looks up, more surprised than anything. It takes him a minute to realize what Gerard is talking about. Scars? Then he remembers; Gerard had seen him shirtless the other day. Frank had grown so used to them, he forgot they were there. He’s blushing probably; Gerard had been looking him all over, and Frank had thought – but no, it was because of the scars. 

He nods. “How bad are they?” He doesn’t remember where they are, how they got there, what they might look like. He avoids looking, and doesn’t actually want to remember. 

Gerard shrugs. “They aren’t gross or anything. I just noticed them.”

“Right.”

“Does it bother you that I saw them?” 

No. Not really. Frank had just wished Gerard had been looking at him for other reasons. “No. Did it bother you seeing them?” Do you think I’m ugly?

“’Course not.” Gerard says quickly. Then amends, “Well, no; it bothers me how they got there. That at one point they weren’t scars but fresh wounds. But it doesn’t bother me that you have imperfections.”

It’s really astounding, never ceasing to amaze Frank how Gerard always has the right thing to say. He smiles, unable to help it, and they keep walking.   
It’s very nice outside. The sun is high in the sky, shinning so bright that not even the thickest tangle of branches can keep its light out. It’s warm, but cool in the woods; Frank feels comfortable in his long sleeved shirt. 

Gerard says, “Your turn.”

Frank thinks. There’s no pressure really; they have all the time they want, and it’s not like there’s a limit, but still. He feels like it matters somehow. 

“How old are you?”

There’s the study crunch of their footsteps on mulch, and then, “Twenty-three.”

Frank doesn’t jump nor does his opinion of Gerard suddenly molt into something horrible. Okay. So Gerard is older than him. He already knew that; he didn’t know by how much, but it was obvious. Maybe it’s because Gerard doesn’t actually look old at all, or because he knows Gerard – or is starting to – either way, Frank simply nods. 

He feels like he needs to reciprocate, so he says, “I turned eighteen last month.”

Gerard kind of sighs, a long, resigned thing. They haven’t looked at each other at all since they’ve began they’re trek into the woods, but now, he glances over. Frank keeps looking forward, focusing on a large tree in the distance that’s shedding bark like the way you grate cheese. He can feel eyes on him, hotter than the sun, but he refuses to acknowledge them. 

“Your turn,” He says. 

Gerard says nothing. They keep walking. Gerard says nothing. 

Frank sighs. “Does it bother you?” He wonders if this is how it will go. Ask a question. Answer a question. Wonder if the answer has somehow bothered the asker. 

“A little,” Gerard admits. 

“It doesn’t bother me.” He finally looks at Gerard, hoping that he will see the honesty in his eyes, even if Frank is squinting in the sunlight. He wants to explain that it’s not like they are Frank the teenager and Gerard the young adult. They are just Frank and Gerard, ageless and eternal, despite the time moving around them. 

“Okay,” Gerard’s tone is – well, Frank can tell he still wants to talk about this, go in deeper. Frank wants too as well, but there are more questions to get to. “What’s your mom like?”

And Frank explains how amazing his mother is; goes into detail about their time after the dad thing and how supportive she was. He mentions his disbelief in God too, which he notes Gerard nods his head too, if slightly. He may ramble a little, but he never does usually and Gerard seems to like it. It’s probably because Frank is usually so quiet; but that had been the point of this, to get the two of them talking, and that’s what Frank is doing. 

When he’s done, Gerard is grinning. “She sounds great.” He adds, “I figured she would be, considering she let you do this at all.”

Frank responds with, “What’s your brother like?” 

And so Frank learns about Mikey. He’s younger than Gerard, near Frank’s age, but they are closer than anything. He listens to Gerard go on and on about his younger brother, admiration soaking his voice, his eyes shining. Frank has never had anything close to a sibling, but the way Gerard makes it sound; he kind of wished he had a Mikey of his own. Gerard notices Frank’s wistful face and makes sure to add that they definitely fight – all siblings do.

“He really wanted to meet you.” 

Frank shrugs; he doesn’t like thinking about that day. He’d resolved some of his internal issues, but he’d been so dazed and out of it afterward, it almost didn’t seem worth it. 

“Next time,”

Gerard holds him to it.


	18. Sunset

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wowie rlly rushed

Ch. 18   
“Why did you let me stay?”

Sweat is starting to pool on the back of Frank’s neck, in the curve that leads to his spine. Strands of his hair are sticking to his temples and his thirst is getting harder and harder to ignore. Still, their walk has been enjoyable so far and he doesn’t feel the need to turn around yet. 

He says to Gerard, “Which time?” Because there was the first time, when he let Gerard back into the house, and the second, when he let Gerard live with him. 

“Why did you let me back in?” Gerard amends. “Even though you knew I’d been breaking in. Even though I was a stranger.” 

Frank hadn’t understood why he did it then, and he still doesn’t now. He’s thought about it, briefly, since then, but – at this point, to him, it didn’t matter. Gerard was here, they were both happy and it hadn’t been a mistake. That was nothing else to it. 

Except apparently Gerard was still thinking about it. 

Frank doesn’t want to short him out on an answer, so instead of just saying he doesn’t know, he thinks about it. There had to be a reason, obviously. Frank didn’t usually – he wasn’t one to make rash decisions. But Gerard was. That’s what Gerard did – he came back to the cabin, even though he knew Frank was instead. He invited himself to live with Frank, without even really knowing him, just because. And there were so many other things. Gerard just didn’t think, he didn’t care. And it sounded stupid, out of context, but this was Gerard. And in the end, whatever Gerard did would end happily. It didn’t matter how stupid or rash or unexpected.

Frank can remember. Staring at Gerard as he waited to let inside – because he knew he would be, there hadn’t been a doubt in his mind, Frank knows that now – he’d admired how unpredictable Gerard was. How he could act like this and get away with it and somehow be happy still. 

That was why he let Gerard inside. In that moment, Gerard hadn’t been some stranger – it was almost like meeting a celebrity you didn’t actually know. You just – you hear their name, you know they’re someone important, so even if you don’t know why they’re famous, you’re still star struck. That’s what Frank had been. Struck speechless at this brazen stranger – how could he turn him away?

Frank tries to sum this up as best he can so that Gerard can understand. It’s embarrassing though, and his words stutter and his voice cracks and pitches in weird volumes. He can’t meet Gerard’s eyes when he’s done.   
Gerard just huffs out a small, amused sounding breath. Frank can feel his smile, even if it’s a foot or so away. He’s either feeling really ego-boosted, or is laughing at Frank to himself. 

“Is that not – what were you expecting?” Frank asks. 

Gerard shrugs. “I don’t really know.” He’s still smiling. 

Frank doesn’t really know what to say. He really hopes Gerard isn’t making fun of him. His face feels hot, hotter than it already had been, but he expected this. He knew going into this there would be questions he wouldn’t like to answer, answers that would be hard to get out. It’s not – he doesn’t want to do it, but he has to. Gerard has to. There’s something he wants, and he doesn’t think he’s going to get it until Gerard is satisfied with their game. 

“Why did you come back? Why did you stay?”

“That’s two questions.”

“They go together.”

Gerard shrugs. Then he turns on his heels, looks back over his shoulder at Frank, that stupid fucking smile on his face, and gestures for Frank to follow. So, they’re turning around; they’re reaching the end. 

“I wanted to know who owned the cabin I’d been illegally staying in.” Gerard says. 

It’s sunset now. The woods have become darker, shrouded in delightful shadows that aren’t large enough to be threatening. The sun brandishes the leaves in a glow that makes their already bright oranges and yellows and reds even brighter, even more orange. Frank focuses on these things; concentrates on breathing in the musk of the wood and waits for Gerard to finish answering. 

“I asked to stay with you because –“ Gerard breathes out one long breath; honestly Frank is surprised consider he knows how shit Gerard’s lungs are. Or, they should be, with the amount he smokes. “Well I told you then. I didn’t want to come back to you dead body. I thought you needed me, and I wanted to help. But also,” He shrugs, and now Frank hears   
that same anxious crack that had been in his own voice. “You’re beautiful. And I wanted to be close to you.”

Frank’s next step falters just a little. His mouth becomes impossibly drier, and he looks up at Gerard, sharp and wide eyed. Gerard had already been staring at him, lower lip red and swelling like he’d been gnawing on it. Frank can’t understand the look in his eyes, but it makes warmth spread through him. 

“Gerard,” 

He doesn’t know what to do – what to say. It feels like they’ve been edging towards this since they met, since Frank first felt his heart go weird. But now that they’re on the precipice, he’s speechless. He doesn’t know what will help them – help him – get them over the edge, whether it’s words or – or what he doesn’t know. But they’ve stopped walking and they’re just staring at each other, eyes wide and blown; they’re closer though, barely an inch apart, and Frank isn’t sure how that happened but it has and his mouth is open but he isn’t sure what to do with it.

Gerard asks one more question. “What do you want?” 

Frank really doesn’t know. He really, really doesn’t. He kind of wants everything, anything Gerard has to offer. But he isn’t stupid; he doesn’t know if he can handle all that. So he kind of just says some bullshit, basically the first thing that comes to mind. “You.”

Gerard’s smile is impossibly wide; it splits across his face and brightens the entire world. He leans forward, slowly, like he’s approaching a frightened deer, or something, and Frank just waits patiently. 

He doesn’t move, not when Gerard’s forehead connects with his, when their noses rub together, in a way that reminds Frank of something silly but also very sweet. He doesn’t move when Gerard breathes out and his breath spills across Frank’s lips, like the beginning of something, and he doesn’t move when Gerard bends lower, so he can finally reach Frank’s lip. 

It’s not until he can feel Gerard’s lips against his, not until Gerard’s hand curls up around his neck to pull him up and closer – that’s when he moves. Frank surges up, pressing in, responding, and kissing back. He knows Gerard feels the shift from just receiving to engaging; he can literally feel Gerard smile against him and it’s like nothing he’s ever felt before and he laughs. 

Laughing opens his mouth; Gerard sees that as an invitation. And – Frank’s never kissed anyone before. He doesn’t really know what to do. But Gerard doesn’t seem to mind; he strokes his tongue into Frank’s mouth, moves his hand up to tangle in Frank’s hair and tugs. The noise that emerges from Frank – it surprises him, honestly, but Gerard only drives in further, presses his entire body against Frank, firm and warm. 

Somewhere far out, the sun is dipping beneath the horizon, but Frank is losing himself in the feel of Gerard’s hair beneath his fingertips.


	19. They Fit Easy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou

"What are you thinking about?" 

Frank hummed, wondering. There was a lot to think about. Currently, he and Gerard are laying on the couch, Gerard's back to it, and Frank's back to Gerard's chest. He feels secure, cradled in the warmth of Gerard's body. 

He waited longer still to answer; he thought about the walk back to the cabin, how even with sweat all over them, Gerard reached out and held Frank's hand the entire way. How easily Gerard pulled him down onto the couch, flicking on a movie that neither of them had any intention of actually watching. He thinks it shouldn't be this easy. They've slipped into this - this what, relationship? They've assumed these roles without hesitation - all it had taken was just one kiss and now. 

And now, Gerard won't stop kissing him. He has easy access to Frank's neck, and he alternates between peppering it with chaste, closed mouth kisses, and long, open mouthed sucks. Frank can feels his teeth sometimes too, biting just hard enough to make him jump, and then Gerard's tongue will be there, smoothing over the wound, licking wetly. Frank can't stand it. He wants more - maybe? Or maybe - no. He doesn't know. But he has to keep these noises that strain up from his throat, he has to keep them under control. Except, Gerard probably hears him, even if Frank almost catches it, because he'll feel Gerard grinning against his skin. 

Frank plays with Gerard's hands. It won't make Gerard react the same way Frank is - that isn't why he's doing it. Frank has admired Gerard's hands since he first saw him paint. They were capable of so much - it felt like he was holding something special, something made of magic, between his fingers. He presses in against the meaty flesh of Gerard's thumb; traces each finger individually, mapping out each knuckle and straight pass in between. Gerard's fingernails are stubbed short from biting and slightly yellow. When Frank presses their palms together, manipulates Gerard's limp fingers so that they're matched up, Frank is surprised to see a significant difference in size. Not enough to be - not enough that Frank has any doubts about the whole age thing. Really, it's just another reminder of how much smaller he is than everyone else. 

Gerard skims his lips across Frank's jaw, presses in just below it and plants a hot kiss there. "Frank." 

Right. He had asked a question. What was Frank thinking about? "For once," He says, kind of breathless and gritty with Gerard's mouth and tongue still going at him. "I'm not thinking about anything." 

Gerard's laugh is warm, fluttering breaths breezes across Frank's wet skin. He shivers. 

"That's kind of a miracle, isn't it?" 

Frank nods. "Actually, yeah." 

Gerard had been keeping his hands pliant and loose, allowing Frank to do what he will, but now he takes control, grabbing Frank's hands and lacing their fingers. He draws their held hands up to Frank's chest, holding on tight, squeezing Frank harder against him. 

"Can we keep playing our game?" Gerard is asking, but not really. His tone implies he would start asking questions even if Frank said no. Frank doesn't say no though; he nods, if hesitantly. 

"Have you ever ..." Gerard trails off, fingers rubbing into the back of Frank's hands. "Have you ever been with someone before?" Frank's blushing. "Like, in a relationship -" 

"No." And he hasn't. Too shy before, and then afterwards no one wanted to come near him. "Not a boy or a girl." He is blushing like crazy, face hot and unbearable, but he - he'll answer any of Gerard's questions. 

"Why?"

It's two questions in one go, but Frank had done the same thing so. "Before my dad, I was still trying to figure out if I was actually gay or bi or whatever. And then after - no one wanted to look at me, let alone touch me." 

Gerard makes this noise - it's harsh and like a growl but now, and he squeezes hard on Frank's hands. It actually hurts, just a little like a lot, but Frank - he gets it. He lets it happens and almost relishes in the feel of it. Like a bruise, the kind of pain that thuds in your blood. It's comforting.   
He noses behind Frank's ear, harsh breath blowing Frank's hair. 

"I'm sorry it's just - that's so fucking stupid." Gerard's tone is gentle, but Frank can tell he's angry. "How could they look at you and only see what was done to you. Frank, you're so much more than that." 

Frank knows he is, but hearing Gerard say it, it's like conformation. "Thank you." There's nothing more he could say. Gerard understands, Gerard gets it. 

Frank thinks that's part of the attraction. Frank never has to say any more than he needs to. Gerard will always understand, no matter how little he says. 

Frank's question is, "Are you leaving marks on me?" The bites and the long pulls had felt hard enough to leave something, but Frank's never experienced this before so he isn't sure. 

Gerard laughs again. "Yeah," He presses his lips to a specific part on the side of Frank's neck, and the pressure - it's like dull but still enough to make Frank gasp. "Does that bother you?" 

Something warm zips through Frank's spine, sharp and bubbling, pooling at the hollow of his back. Because - "No," it doesn't bother him at all. He likes it. He likes it a lot and he doesn't know why. Gerard leaving his mark on him - he shouldn't like it as much as he does. 

Gerard, of course, can tell just by the tone of Frank's voice. He knows Frank likes it. He nips pointedly at that one bruise, and chuckles when Frank makes another embarrassing noise. 

He says, "I'm going to find every sensitive spot on you." His voice is dark with promise, and Frank feels that heat building. 

It wasn't a question, but Frank takes it as one. "Okay," and then, "What exactly did you tell Mikey about me that made him so eager to meet me?" 

He can feel Gerard shift beneath him as he shrugs. "I told him that that abandoned cabin he told me about wasn't abandoned at all. I told him this amazing kid named Frank was living there. I told him Frank plays guitar and, dude, you should hear him it's like - he could make a lot of money I swear. I told him Frank really likes my paintings, and comics - all of which Mikey likes too. I told him me and Frank are really starting to get close, and Mikey said he wanted to meet his brothers new best friend." 

Frank feels it in him to cry, but he doesn't. He just smiles, hard and full, his cheeks making it hard for him to really see. No one - people just don't talk about him like that. They don't even use his name. They'll just say that weird kid. That one that got fucked up by his own dad. That one that always walks with his head down. They never, ever say he's amazing. 

Frank turns suddenly, pushing a surprised, but happy, sound out of Gerard. Frank moves until he's laying properly over Gerard, chest to chest, eyes meeting. Frank just stares, for just a second; he looks into Gerard, tries to pass on every bit of admiration and grateful feeling he has for Gerard in that second. 

And then he's kissing him. Gerard's mouth is slick and hot, tongue eagerly tracing Frank's lips, biting at them playfully. He lets Frank lead, lets Frank explore his mouth, running his tongue along every part he can reach. Gerard tastes like coffee and something unique to Gerard, and Frank just can't get enough. He wishes he knew how to do this better, wishes he didn't have to breathe quite so much. But when he breaks away panting into Gerard's neck, Gerard is happy to just hold him close, keeping his mouth on any bit of Frank's skin he can reach. 

Frank cuddles into Gerard's warmth. He burrows into the soft place between his neck and shoulder, where it smells like Gerard and also his shampoo and the woods from earlier. He breathes in deep and holds close, content for once in his life.


End file.
